She Is Our Sun
by imtoojuicy
Summary: A story that explores Pantheon's relationship with Leona, from childhood to champions. Draws a lot of tidbits from existing lore. Will feature romance, Rakkor culture, and butt kicking. Told mostly from Pantheon's POV.
1. She Is Our Sun

The outcome of the fight had never been in doubt. She was by far the superior warrior and, within two short exchanges of blows, her opponent crumpled to the ground with a shrill cry, clutching at his side where surely a broken rib or two now resided. It was almost a mockery, so uneven the fight was. Practically a sparring session between a seasoned weapon master and a fresh-faced novice. But this was no sparring session of harmless consequence. It was the mortal opposite. This was the Rite of Kor, a duel to the death between Rakkoran children who were on the cusp of adulthood.

The matchup between Leona and Molik was unfair, and everyone knew it. The other children, the parents, and the elders of the tribe, all watching from the edges of the blood-soaked dirt clearing. They all knew. For the ugly unspoken truth about the Rite of Kor was that the elders always matched the weak students against the strong ones. This way, it was ensured that the strong ones always moved on. All of them. No wasted potential slipping through the cracks. The weak were merely stepping stones along the way, lambs to be sacrificed for the greater good of Rakkor.

Other than Leona's hand-wringing parents off to the side, there was only one other spectator who was nervous for Leona. Her closest friend, someone she had known for as far back as she could remember. Leona usually called him by his birth name, Markus. When she wanted to press his buttons, she called him by his pet name, Rabbit. Others, however, called him by his tribal name: Pantheon.

It was not a name he was yet used to, for tribal names were earned through the Rite of Kor. And he had earned the name no more than an hour ago. His hands were still somewhat slippery with blood, but now the palms were also cold and sweaty. Nervous. Not about the fight itself. Leona would win, that was a given. No, he was nervous about what she would do after the fight. For while everyone knew that Leona was a staunch defender of those less fortunate, and that she absolutely loathed violence and bloodshed which she deemed unnecessary... pretty much everyone assumed that she would kill Molik and take her place among the Rakkoran elite. For if Molik did not die, she would be the one to die. Simple as that. She was as headstrong as a team of oxen, but even an idealist like her would have to accept the reality of the situation. That's what everyone thought, at least, as they waited for Leona to deal the final blow.

Pantheon knew better than that. Yes, she could be incredibly stubborn about the smallest issues and trifles. But in those situations, it was still possible to sway her with reason. When it came to the big things, however? Issues and questions of morality that she held dear to her heart? She was absolutely immovable on such things. Would not hear of anything else. Would not act in any other way. She had her own particular set of convictions, she always followed them to the letter, and that was that.

And six years ago, when the children's instructors first informed them about the Rite of Kor and the grisly nature of its completion, Leona had been the first and only child to respond to the shocking revelation when she abruptly stood up with trembling fists of balled-up fury, her eyes burning holes into those of her superiors.

"I will never do that. _Never._"

Back then, her instructors had allowed her insolence to pass. After all, she was one of the most promising talents of the village and such talent was too precious to stamp out at an early age. However, Pantheon did not share their relative indifference because he knew that tone of voice. Her words were not a cry of outrage. They were a solemn oath, words she would never go back on, words she would carry with her to the grave. She would never kill a comrade. She would never complete the Rite of Kor. Never.

Nonetheless, during that split second where Leona towered menacingly over Molik, her feet firmly planted on the murky reddened ground, Pantheon fervently wished with all his might that she would just lash out with her sword and finish off Molik. Or maybe Molik would be so ashamed of his defeat that he would lunge forward and run himself into her sword before she could react. Or maybe that ****ing Molik, being the feeble warrior that he was, maybe he would keel over dead from a punctured liver or internal bleeding or something. Anything. Pantheon didn't care how it ended. All he wanted was for Molik to bite the dust, and for Leona to live. _Just ****ing die already, Molik._

_Die._

DIE.

Then Pantheon's heart dropped to his stomach, as Leona both tossed aside her shield and sheathed her sword in one practiced motion. And she said quietly but firmly to her watching instructors: "No."

By the gods, she really was going through with it. She was going to let that little rat live and she was going to die by the hands of her own people. He gritted his teeth madly while cursing under his breath, "Goddammit, Leona, you stupid stubborn donkey! You stupid stubborn braying donkey, by gods, just kill the little **** and be done with it! _KILL HIM!_"

He could not believe this was happening. Did not want to believe. This had to be a dream. Yes, like a dream, the air about him was now surreal and hazy, shimmering, everything luminescent. His hearing muted. Tingling crawled all over his skin. He realized that he could not control his breathing.

The clearing was silent, the air heavy with dread and anticipation. A sharp voice now cut through, jarring Pantheon out of his momentary stupor. The leader of the tribe, Jagen, was speaking.

The words were crisp, uncompromising, deadened. "Finish it."

Her response was swift, resolute, final. "I refuse."

Now that she was openly defying their leader, the crowd finally began to stir. Mumbles of disbelief, mostly. A muted sound of grief from her crying mother, and a curt choking sound from the throat of her tight-lipped father.

Although he could have done so right then and there, Jagen did not issue the death sentence just yet. Leona was easily the strongest Rakkoran woman to come about in the last century; he had no doubt that she would bring them great victories on the battlefield and give birth to great warriors from her bed. They could not afford to lose a woman of such prowess and genetics, even if she was suffering from a bout of temporary insanity. They had to make her see the light somehow.

They did have one card to play: her best friend, Pantheon. As children, the two had started out thick as thieves, virtually joined at the hip as they ran up and down the streets in endless footraces and clobbered each other over the head with wooden swords. They did become a bit more distant as they outgrew the silly contests between themselves, but as Leona matured into a full-fledged woman, rumors started to abound that she took quite the fancy to her strapping childhood friend. Of course, she tried her best to hide it whenever she interacted with him, but the sharp eyes of the village crones saw all; it is very hard to fool a woman's intuition.

Her preference pained the hearts of all young men not named Pantheon, but the elders were delighted with her choice. With the strongest man of their generation together with the strongest woman in recent history, the future of their tribe would be secure for decades to come. But for all this to happen, she first had to pass her Rite of Kor.

Jagen and the other elders shared a nod, then Jagen looked to Pantheon.

Pantheon was by her side immediately and he hissed angrily, almost desperately. "You need to do this, Leona."

He tried to make eye contact with her, but she refused to reciprocate. Her eyes stayed zeroed in on Jagen as she replied to both the elder and her friend. "I will not."

Perhaps she avoided his eyes because she was afraid she would lose her resolve. Or more likely, she was simply showing her defiance of Rakkoran tradition to the very end. Or perhaps it was a bit of both. Either way, the reasons did not matter to Pantheon; all he knew was that his best friend was going to die if he could not change her mind.

Even worse, he had no idea what to say. He was a soldier, not an orator. Solving problems with his tongue had never been his strong suit.

Then a wild notion flashed through Pantheon's mind, and his helmet slowly rotated towards Molik.

Molik was up on his knees now, slowly coming to grips with the possibility that he might survive his Rite of Kor one way or the other. But now, he looked up to see Pantheon's steely helmet focused squarely on him, the warrior's face indecipherable behind a mask with bottomless shadows.

Molik stared back at Pantheon in confusion. Then Molik's bladder lost all control, as he suddenly realized that he was now closer to death than he had ever been during his fight with Leona. He was too terrified to move or speak. A blessing in disguise, actually. If Molik had uttered even one word at that moment, any word, Pantheon would have rammed his short sword through that pathetic mewling mouth.

From behind him sounded a sharp draw of breath, and Pantheon snapped out of his murderous daze. He looked back to see Leona's beautiful face warped in fury, her eyes blazing as she emphatically told him without words: "_NO_."

Pantheon knew that she was right, of course. His killing Molik would not solve anything and it would not complete her passage to adulthood. A new opponent would be put in front of her and she would have to go through the same ordeal all over again. The only difference being that Pantheon would no longer be watching because he would be dead. Death was the penalty for interfering with a Rite of Kor.

As it was, Pantheon was already precariously close to violating this particular Rite of Kor. He had asked her, she had refused, and he should have left the clearing by now. For every moment Pantheon continued to dawdle by Leona and Molik, Jagen's lips drew tighter and tighter. It had not occurred to Jagen that Pantheon would even entertain the crazy notion of interfering with a Rite of Kor. Pantheon had always been the disciplined one, straight as an arrow despite his penchant for jumping over tall buildings for the lark of it (hence why Leona liked to call him Rabbit). Leona was the troublesome one, questioning everything at every step and turn, insisting that bloodshed was not the final answer to everything.

The light seeped through the face of Pantheon's helmet now, revealing his confusion. Her face softened for a moment and their eyes met. Then Pantheon finally realized something that he should have noticed from the beginning: she was not afraid.

Everyone else thought that her calm and composed face was a facade, a conscious display of her open defiance of Jagen. But when Pantheon stared into her eyes, all he saw was conviction. She was convinced that what she was doing was right. More than convinced, even. She knew. She simply knew that this course of action was the right one.

Her conviction was contagious somehow and an odd yet welcome peace settled over him. His indecision faded away as his imagination fancied the whispering of muted voices somewhere in the back of his head. _Do not fear for her_, the voices told him. _For she is righteous, and she walks the path of the gods._

_And where she walks, her people will follow._

The dreamlike haze was back, stronger than ever. His mind in a fog of whispers, Pantheon stepped away from her, his feet moving on their own. Even when the executioners closed in on Leona at Jagen's command, he did not panic for her because he somehow knew they would not reach her. As she stood there with distant eyes gazing out to the horizon, not even acknowledging their presence, he realized that she was beyond them.

The rest was history. When the pillar of light shot down from the heavens, walling off Leona from her would-be executioners, Pantheon was the only one who did not utter a cry of shock. When the pale-faced Jagen hastily called off the execution and sent off his swiftest messenger to summon the Solari, Pantheon knew that she would no longer be living in their village. The sign from the heavens was clear. She was a chosen one, and the chosen ones always resided on Mount Targon's peak where they could be closest to the gods and the sun.

Amid the chaos and hubbub which ensued, which consisted mostly of people falling onto their knees in an impromptu mass prayer to the gods, Leona made it a point to find him in the crowd. It would not be long before the Solari arrived to claim her. Her eyes were misty, but her voice was strong as she grabbed him by the hands and held them close to her chest.

"I will return," she told him with a strange urgency. "Stay safe until then, Markus. Please."

Pantheon was caught off guard by the familiar way with which she touched him. Sure, they hugged countless times before. They held hands before as little children when they walked wide-eyed throughout the village during the fireworks festivals. They wrestled full contact on many occasions, their bodies twisting and turning against each other in ways that might be construed as erotic by someone who had no clue about combat training. Not once did he think of her as anything other than his best friend.

All that changed in an instant. Her femininity surged to the forefront now and it called out to him like a siren's song. Beckoning. Yearning for his touch.

Under the watchful eyes of the elders and the jealous gazes of Pantheon's male peers, her body remained proper and all she did was minutely rub her thumbs against his. But it was enough to set his loins afire as a nigh uncontrollable desire consumed all rational thought.

_My god_, he thought to himself as he enveloped her hands within his. _Has she really been hiding this from me the entire time?_ It was just as well, perhaps, because Rakkor society frowned mightily upon sexual relations before the age of eighteen. If she had behaved like this with him any earlier, he was positive he would not have been able to keep his hands off her.

He tried to think of something tender and romantic to say, or at least something witty. But before he knew it, his stupid tongue was waggling on its own. "Stay safe? Hah, there is no glory in staying safe! I shall decorate my mantle with the helmets of our enemies and, when you return, Leona, I will describe to you in great detail the battle for each helmet! Ha ha ha ha!"

His laugh ended up sounding more nervous than boisterous but his words soothed Leona's anxious eyes, nonetheless. She knew him best and she knew what he was trying to say in his own roundabout way. She simply smiled in delight, and her thumbs began to rub against his thumbs once again...

Even while he was lost in her dazzling smile, Pantheon was forever on alert and his ears pricked up at the sound of approaching horses. He had the sharpest eyes and ears in the village and, to him, it sounded like about three dozen horses, going hard, full gallop. He had a pretty good idea who rode those horses as he turned his head slightly to his right, so that he could watch the horizon of the village's main road.

Leona picked up on the horses a moment later and her smile faded as she turned to see where Pantheon was staring. The rest of the village did the same moments afterward, for they also had sharp ears.

It was a contingent of the Solari, the largest peacetime group Jagen had ever seen of the reclusive clan. Their faces were solemn and their armor was a brilliant shiny gold, functional but far more ornate than standard-issue Rakkor armoran. Pantheon had never seen any Solari before and he felt like his eyes should be hurting from the unnatural brightness of their shields, but they did not. A magical light, he assumed. It seemed they also bore relic weapons of some sort, similar to what the Rakkor used.

The leader of the Solari was an older man at the front and he was the first to dismount. While the other Solari followed his example, he and Jagen exchanged brief bows of the head.

Jagen said, "How did you get here so fast? You were already on your way?"

The leader nodded. "Our seers told us that we must bear witness to this generation's Rite of Kor. We did not understand at first, but now we know why the gods directed us so."

Then he looked straight through Pantheon, his eyes focused only on Leona.

"She is the one?"

Jagen nodded. "Yes."

"It is truly a blessing to have a chosen one among us during these dark times," the Solari leader said.

Jagen could only nod, very conscious of the fact that he almost had her killed an hour ago. He would have to double down on his nightly prayers for the indefinite future, lest the gods be angry with him.

The leader said in a gentle voice, "Leona, do you understand why you must join us?"

She had let go of Pantheon's hands by now and she stepped forward with a nod. "Yes, I understand."

"Thank you for your understanding," the leader said with a subservience that surprised Leona, Pantheon, and all the other Rakkorans. "Further enlightenment awaits you, chosen one."

Then he yelled loudly and clearly: "Kneel, my fellow brethren! Kneel before her, for she is our sun!"

The Solari dropped onto their left knees as one, heads bowed deeply before their anointed champion. The shocked Rakkoran quickly followed suit, Jagen being the first to hit the ground. The most shocked of them all was Leona, her eyes and mouth wide open as she looked all around herself. Nothing but broad backs and bowed heads for as far as she could see. All in deference to her.

And although Pantheon was the closest one to her, as he stared at the ground before him, he could not help but feel so far away. This feeling was far too similar to when he watched the would-be executioners close in on Leona. Not only was she beyond them, she was beyond him. Above and beyond all of them.

For she was their sun.

END OF CHAPTER

Notes: Please leave any feedback and constructive criticism you might have. I am always striving to improve my writing, need inputssss!


	2. Yes, A Baker

Leathery lips and cheeks pulsating with each puff on his pipe, the grizzled heavyset man reached up to scratch his salt and pepper sideburns with flour-coated fingers. His ruined left eye was grayed over and unseeing, framed by ugly and considerable scar tissue. His right eye was still as sharp as ever, however, scouring the early morning horizon for anything of interest as the sun peeked back at him from over the edge.

There was nothing of note in the distance, of course. It was just another quiet uneventful morning, the latest of an endless line, for the town baker, an older retired warrior by the name of Ralmor.

Well, at least there was a fresh new face around to keep things interesting, Ralmor reminded himself. That young boy named Markus was coming around every early morning now for the past two weeks, seeking to learn the tricks of his trade. Odd behavior indeed, since baking was considered to be one of the most menial of trades among the Rakkorans. A necessary occupation, to be sure, but so far removed from the glory and honor waiting to be won on the battlefield. There was a reason why the Rakkorans left such trades like bakery and butchery to those ex-warriors who had been chewed up and spit out by the dogs of war; men and women no longer capable of wielding a deadly sword had no choice but to brandish other tools to keep themselves productive, or else become some useless vestigial fringe of society.

Thus the battle-worn Ralmor had been surprised when this fresh-faced snot-nosed brat showed up a couple weeks ago and demanded rather pompously that Ralmor teach him the ways of the baker. Ralmor knew who he was, of course, because Markus was already acquiring quite a name for himself within the village as some sort of prodigy warrior boy, even at the age of eleven. And Markus knew that Ralmor knew, because Markus had made his request to Ralmor with an expectant face and tone, as if Markus was doing a big favor to this lowly baker by gracing him with his presence.

The impertinence of the little brat almost made Ralmor want to smack him over the head with a wooden ladle and send him on his way. In the end, however, Ralmor let him stay, for baking was a lonely profession. And the early mornings, which started earlier for a baker than most other people, were quite boring, where the biggest peril one faced was usually something along the lines of a rat getting into the grain stores. At the very least, having the brat around would be an amusing diversion.

He took one last puff on his pipe, set it down on the porch railing, and limped back into his bakery. The boy was inside with his back to Ralmor, his shoulders and arms wiggling away as he furiously kneaded an extremely large ball of thoroughly floured dough. Several other balls of dough lay nearby on the table, already kneaded, ready to be cut into pieces and molded into their final baking shape. The old man nodded silently in approval to himself; a brat this boy may be, but he was a hard worker with tireless energy. And something of a perfectionist, which was good, because baking was a much more exact science than other forms of cooking.

Now if only that boy would stop wearing that damn oversized helmet all the time. Ralmor understood that the helmet had belonged to his father and it was part of Markus' grieving process for his parents, who had died on the battlefield before he was even old enough to remember their faces. But seriously, that boy never went anywhere without his helmet, which was two sizes too big for him right now anyway. And to this day, Ralmor was still not quite sure what Markus' face looked like. He heard that other children used to make fun of Markus's helmet-wearing ways, until Markus started to hunt them down, one by one, and drag them out onto the streets so he could administer a very brutal and public beating for all to witness.

Ralmor asked in his raspy grumble of a voice: "Are the ovens ready?"

"I swept out the embers and ash not five minutes ago. The ovens are still too hot, though. Maybe fifteen minutes from now, this batch of dough can go in."

"Good." Ralmor stuck his hand into the wood-fired oven to test the heat himself. Yes, fifteen minutes felt about right. "Go bring in some more grain from the shed, then get your ass out of here. Don't be late to your morning training on my account."

Markus snorted as he gave one final smack to the last ball of dough. "I am never late to the morning training sessions, old man. Quit worrying about me, lest you lose what little hair you have left on your head."

Ralmor grinned as he flicked a stray grain of wheat off the side of Markus' helmet with a loud sharp ping. "Just go get the grain, you little cur, before I slap your impudent mouth shut."

Markus wiped off what excess flour he could from his hands, then went out the back door to do as Ralmor asked. The outdoor wintry air was chilly, biting, and sterile, a sharp contrast to the comforting warmth and aromas of the bakery, but he paid no heed as he pulled out a rusty skeleton key from his apron's pocket to open the padlock of the grain shed's doors. He fancied himself to be a soldier of Rakkor already, and soldiers did not let such minor things as cold and weather bother them.

Besides, who had the time to be bothered by mere cold and weather? When there were nuisances such as these three unwelcome boys walking up to him right now?

While his hands automatically undid the padlock, Markus turned his head to watch the boys' approach. A grim chuckle issued forth from his helmet in the form of an icy puff of breath, a very adult sound from such a young boy. "You know, when you take three weaklings and put them together, you still end up with a bunch of weaklings."

"Shut up, Markus!" The leader of the three boys wore the bravest face, his anger currently overriding all the fresh memories of Markus boxing his ears in just last week. "Joseph said there were rumors of you doing such stupid lowly things at the bakery, and they turn out to be true? Just wait til we tell everyone, Markus! Everyone is going to laugh at you, you stupid weirdo!"

"Do I look like I care? Go ahead and tell everyone, Gregory! Tell whoever you want! If they think that baking makes me any less of a warrior, they are welcome to test my mettle whenever they want! Now get out of my sight before I decide to make you squeal for mercy again, you fat clumsy pig."

Gregory's chubby cheeks turned a rosy red at Markus's goading, and his chubby fingers turned into little buttery balls of trembling fury. "Why you! You think you're so special just because you're the top of the class! You and your stupid helmet, hanging out with that half-blind peg-legged cripple of a baker! You shame the name of your father by embracing the duties of mere commoners aiiiieeeee!"

Gregory squealed in pain as Markus fired the padlock off his forehead with disturbing violence, and the dazed boy crashed to the ground, clutching his badly bleeding face. His two friends immediately sprung for Markus, but they were greeted by a handful of wheat grain flung into their eyes. Their purposeful movements quickly turned awry as they began to stumble. One of them hurtled right by Markus, totally blinded. The other boy's charge came to a screeching halt as Markus tripped him onto his face and subdued him with a swift brutal punch to behind his ear, all in one swift motion.

Markus now heard a piggish scream of pure fury from behind him, and he turned just in time to duck under a wild swing of a fist from Gregory. The bloody-faced boy could hardly see straight, he was so angry, and his vision so obscured. Unfortunately for the big-boned Gregory, he had forgotten that he was nowhere near the fighter that Markus was, and he swiftly came to his senses, in a manner of speaking, when the light-footed Markus landed a pair of precise blows to his jaw and dropped him like a stone.

The only non-grounded boy had jumped back into the fray, having removed what husks and grain he could from his watery eyes. He was a bit more nimble than Gregory, but he still moved in slow motion compared to Markus, and Markus easily absorbed the takedown attempt with strong quick hips. Markus actually cackled under his breath as he used his leverage to ride the would-be tackler into the ground, stick a knee into his attacker's neck, and grind the boy's screaming face against the pebble-strewn dirt.

"The most important tactic when facing multiple enemies? Take out the weakest one, hahaha! The only problem is, you're all so weak, I don't know who to take out first!" He paused for a moment as he straightened up to catch his breath and savor his opponent's mewls for mercy beneath his legs. "Well, I guess I'll start with you - "

A girl's loud voice growled from behind him: "MARKUS!"

He blinked at the unexpected warning. Then he instinctively reached up to shield his head as he uttered, "Uh oh - "

CLANG.

The loud ringing sound of big wooden stick impacting against burnished steel helmet echoed throughout the alleyway. And Markus was sent rolling onto the ground beside his fallen opponents, yelling in pain as he clutched at his helmeted head.

"Ow ow ow ow!" He fought back the tears of pain that were welling up in his eyes as he sat up to yell, "Leona! What the hell was that for!"

His childhood friend, Leona, towered above him like the goddess of punishment herself, and she had her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. "What are you picking on these three boys for, Markus!"

"Me picking on them? What are you talking about! They started it!"

"Oh, come on, you and I both know that they stood no chance against you! You didn't have to be so violent with them!" Leona knelt down to poke at the one boy whom Markus had punched behind the ear. "This one is just now coming to!"

"Hah! When a man starts a fight, he should be prepared to finish it! Or else his enemy will finish it for him - "

CLANG.

"Owww! Stop hitting me!"

"Then stop talking so big like you know anything!" Leona dragged Gregory to his feet now. "And you, Gregory! Stop coming back for more, you big dummy! Why can't you just let bygones be bygones! Honestly, can you even remember the original reason why you and Markus started fighting in the first place?"

A shamefaced Gregory shook his head and mumbled an unintelligible apology as he gingerly felt his rapidly swelling jaw and helped his semi-conscious friend to his feet. He was joined by his gravel-faced friend, and the three mumbled more apologies, mostly to Leona, as they scurried away with their tails between their legs...

It should be noted that the boys' show of subservience to Leona was not some form of chivalry or woman-coddling gallantness. They allowed her to admonish them and whack them over the head because of the simple fact that she was bigger than they were. A precocious young girl in many ways, she was already sprouting into a woman at age eleven, and she was almost a full head taller now than her dear friend Markus. And she found herself reminding him of this fact on a near daily basis, mostly when he got a little too big for his britches.

Leona sighed as she watched Gregory and company trudge off into the distance, then sighed again as she turned her head to look down at her sour-faced friend. "Stop pouting, Markus. You know I'm right."

He grumbled, "You didn't have to hit me so hard."

"I have to hit you over the head because you never listen to anything I say!"

"I'd listen to you if you said anything worth listening to! Turn the other cheek, you say! Be the bigger man, you say - whatever the hell that means! The bigger man is the man who beats down the other man! That's who the bigger man is!"

He lapsed into silence now, grousing and brooding inside his oversized helmet. After a moment, Leona smoothed out her pants and took a seat next to him on the steps leading up to the bakery's rear entrance.

"Did they say something about your father again?"

"Yeah, they did."

"You know they don't seriously mean that. They are just looking for an excuse to fight, nothing more. Your father would be very proud of you right now, everyone knows that."

"Yeah, I know. It just feels better when I beat their faces in, that's all."

"They wouldn't be so angry with you if you showed more restraint in the first place. Showing them your superior strength is one thing. Humiliating them in front of everyone else is another."

"I didn't do anything that they didn't already deserve!"

Leona rolled her eyes. "Last week, did you really have to rip off Gregory's pants and drag him around by his ankles for half an hour?"

"Well..." Markus adjusted his helmet, a habit of his when he was unsure of himself. "Okay, maybe that was going a little too far... but he's still a little prlck! In more ways than one, mind you!"

"Ewwww!" Leona shoved her friend away from herself, in case his crude tongue was somehow contagious. "Markus, you can be so disgusting sometimes!"

"Eh heh heh heh!" He let out an impish laugh as he clapped his hands together in a cloud of flour. "What can I say! My eagle's eye sees everything, both big and small!"

"Was that supposed to be funny, Markus? Because that was so not funny... hey!" Leona noticed the flour on his hands for the first time. "What's that stuff on your hands?"

"Huh?" He looked down at his powdery hands. "Oh, it's uh... um..."

Leona finally realized that they were sitting behind old man Ralmor's bakery, and she instantly put two and two together. "Is that flour on your hands?"

For all his bluster earlier about not caring who knew of his baking hobby, Markus found himself fumbling for words as he stammered, "I, uh... so what if it's flour! What's it to you! I like baking bread, and there's nothing you can do about it! So there! Hah!"

He then obstinately crossed his arms and pouted some more, bracing himself both physically and mentally for the inevitable torrent of teasing from his best friend...

But to his surprise, Leona simply sat there, staring at him. He tried not to look at her as he kept up his mean hard face and his wiry arms crossed, but her silence proved to be most unsettling for him. He finally said out of the corner of his mouth, "What? What is it?"

"So this is where you've been in the mornings for the past two weeks," she finally said in an almost astonished voice. "I was wondering what you were doing before morning training."

"Huh? What do you mean? I'm always on time for morning training!"

"No, you were always early for morning training. Now, you are merely on time." Leona's face broke out into a big impulsive smile as she started to laugh. "That's so funny, Markus! I didn't know you would like to do something as common as baking!"

Her laughter was good-natured, hardly the derisive tone he had been expecting, and he relaxed a tiny bit as he tried not to smile with her (it was very important to him that he keep up his mean hard face). And he asked her, "What... what's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just that, I don't know... you're the last person I would expect to be a baker, that is all."

"Well, it's pretty simple, if you think about it. I like to eat bread. And bread tastes best when it's fresh! So, you know, I thought to myself one day, it would be so awesome if I could make fresh bread whenever I wanted to!"

Leona was no longer laughing, but she was smiling wide now. And there was something different about her smile this morning, as she giggled and nudged him with her shoulder. "You're so weird, Markus!" She paused. "But it's ok, I like it that you're weird!"

He didn't know why, but something about her seemingly innocuous words and smile made his ears go aflame with red. And his tongue and brain became incredibly hamstrung as he started up a fresh bout of stammering and protesting. "I – I'm not weird! You're weird, not me! Stop being a weird girl who says weird things, you... you weirdo!"

And with that, he jumped to his feet and, not sure what else to do, he reached down and snatched the ribbon out of her hair. "I dunno about you, but I'm going to morning training! See ya there, slow poke!"

Leona howled in outrage as she grabbed for her hair ribbon, but he was far too quick as he was already scampering down the road with his new yellow silken trophy in hand. She may have been bigger than everyone else her age, but he happened to be quicker than everyone else. And he could already jump tall fences with a single bound, a harbinger of things to come for the one who would bear the tribal name Pantheon.

"Markus, I swear! When I get my hands on you..."

The red-headed girl's voice trailed off into nothingness as she disappeared around a corner in futile pursuit. Then Ralmor stuck his head out the back door with a wry grin on his face, having heard every word uttered by the two children.

"Silly kids," he muttered to himself as he then limped out to the grain shed and it's still-open door. Oh well. It looked like he'd have to bring in the grain himself this morning.

END OF CHAPTER

Notes: Obviously this chapter is a nod to Pantheon's joke about wanting to be a baker. Yes, a baker.


	3. Belly of the Beast

Heavy lumbering steps echoed throughout an ever-winding stairwell of dull obsidian squares, a pair of massive cracked leather boots trudging inexorably to the top of the tower. The black stairwell was dimly lit and, although clean enough, smelled of old dust and oily torches. Logic dictated that the stone steps and walls would bear a hint of cold to reflect the frigid winter winds howling outside. However, they were anything but, as a throbbing warmth emanated from the stone surfaces, drifting over the stolid hardened features and melting the snowflakes that clung to the eyelashes of Darius, the Hand of Noxus.

An organic heat, Darius thought to himself, as he brushed away the tickling moisture from his eyes. Like the innate body heat of a creature, not the windy drafts of a mechanical furnace. The belly of a beast, perhaps. A beast with scales of black obsidian.

These thoughts often crossed his mind whenever he ascended this stairwell. On occasion, he wanted to ask his master if, indeed, this tower was somehow alive. But he never asked. At best, the question was irrelevant and posed no purpose other than to serve as idle conversation; and both he and his master hated idle conversation. At worst, his master would consider the question to be one with an ulterior motive, which was the furthest from the truth and not the impression that Darius would ever want to give.

Besides, Darius was pretty sure he knew the answer already.

After a couple more minutes of trudging, he finally reached the top of the stairwell to face a large, single, and simple cast-iron door whose front bore the engraved image of a six-eyed raven in mid-screech. The lighting was best here, illuminating every little horrid detail of the raven monstrosity's mutated face and its wormy plumage. The heat of the beast was strongest here. Sweltering. Suffocating.

He had not knocked yet, but he knew that his presence was already known. The walls were featureless yet he felt their lidless eyes, unblinking like those of the raven on the door. They watched his every move, searching for something false. Because even though Darius was his most loyal champion, loyalty could be such a fleeting thing in Noxus.

With the walls watching him, Darius knocked anyway. Force of habit.

The voice of his general was muted and calm from behind the door: "Come in."

Darius reached forward with a gloved leather hand to pull open the heavy iron door on its silent hinges, and he stepped into the personal chambers of Jericho Swain, the Grand General of Noxus.

The main room of Swain's chambers was cool and refreshing in atmosphere, nothing like the unnerving stairwell. It was also astonishingly simple for a man of such power and influence. Serving as both lobby and living room, the room's only signs of grandiose indulgence happened to be the trio of incredibly expensive rugs spread about the obsidian floor. The walls bore no showy coat-of-arms or giant trophies of war and hunt. Four framed smallish photographs and portraits of various people adorned the walls instead, one per wall, centered. Darius did not know who these people were. He had never bothered to ask.

Although, there was that one ancient photograph of a lady who bore more than a passing resemblance to the mysterious LeBlanc of the Black Rose, in both countenance and costume. The picture reeked of romantic sentiment, from the unusually ornate frame of wooden flowers, to the soft and playful smile on the woman's face. That one definitely had Darius raising an internal eyebrow or two.

Either way, he was not here to chit chat about long lost or long dead girlfriends. He saluted his general, bringing his right fist to his sternum with an audible thump and sharply bowing his head.

"Sir. You called for me?"

"I did. Please, sit down, Darius of Gilead."

That archaic manner of greeting, referring to a man's home territory. One of Swain's peculiarities.

Darius did as asked, slowly seating his mammoth frame onto the only chair available to him, a sturdy oak stool with a plush rose silken cushion on top. The stool squeaked and groaned, complaining about the burdensome weight of him and the giant axe which he bore on his back. He was not in his battle armor, but he always carried his axe wherever he went. Even here, within the bastion of Noxus' capital city, among comrades. Because, again, allegiances were a fleeting thing in Noxus.

Jericho Swain sat across the room from Darius, relaxing in a black leather armchair with shiny mahogany legs. Swain's luxuriant jade and golden robes were a jarring contrast to the relatively plain decor of his private quarters, but the rich silk and jewelry served a practical purpose. Displays of opulence and privilege mattered, unfortunately, when in the company of Noxian nobility and royalty.

Swain's cane was next to him, attached to a tall bronze stand that served as both a cane holder and a perch for his pet raven. The raven was currently on top of the perch, long snake tongue protruding and waggling from its open mouth, its six red repulsive eyes fixated on Darius. Six translucent inflamed pimples filled with infected poison, Darius mused to himself, as his own stony gaze met the raven's insolent eyes head on. God, he hated that bird.

Darius felt Swain's amused eyes on him, and he looked to his Grand General. The older man's face was hard, harder than even the face of Darius. Darius was in his late 30's and a veteran of countless battles and duels; yet, next to his general, he still felt like a pup freshly weaned from his mother's teat. The tumultuous history of Noxus' last four decades had left indelible markings on Swain's craggy face, deep etches and grooves telling an epic tale of conquest, betrayal, cruelty, and death. So much death.

And yet, despite all this, Swain's face managed to express something akin to mirth, as he waved nonchalantly to his bird.

"His gaze is rude, but he means no harm. Believe it or not, he actually likes you."

Swain's jovial gesture soothed the irritation within Darius, and Darius's face cracked open with a thin smile. "Eh." The smile vanished. And he looked to the only pieces of furniture between him and Swain: two small bronze tripods, each with a large milky white crystal globe resting on top. "Were you watching something on the holo crystals?"

A brief nod. "Yes, I am. And I wanted you to watch them also, so I called you here." He gestured to the holo crystal to his left. "Here, we have a public relations function for the League, hosted within the capital of Demacia and going on as we speak."

"Oh. The League." Darius could not hide the derision within his voice. The League and their precious mock battles, attempting to unify the world and do away with true war. What a bunch of stinking tripe.

He glowered at the specified holo crystal. "Looks like quite the gathering. I see... Demacians, Ionians... yordles..." His eyes squinted at the sight of a tall red-headed woman in lustrous golden armor. "... and a Rakkoran?" Darius looked to Swain now. "Odd. I was under the impression that the Rakkor hated these social functions even more than we did."

"Historically, they avoid such functions like the plague. But not this one. She has attended every single public relations function since she became a champion two months ago." Swain's face was unreadable, his eyes calmly watching his most valuable soldier. "Interesting, yes?"

"Yes, it is." Darius muttered under his breath as he watched Leona smile graciously and shake hands with a Demacian nobleman. "She certainly seems more sociable than the other Rakkoran champion."

"Ha ha ha. Oh yes, she is." Swain gruffly laughed as both he and Darius took a moment to recall the time when Pantheon, during his one and only League function, wasted no time in picking a fight with Garen, nearly starting a ballroom-wide brawl. Needless to say, Pantheon was never again invited to a League function after that incident.

Speaking of Garen, the Demacian fool now barged into view on the holo crystal, practically falling over his feet in his eagerness to introduce himself to Leona. Darius snorted in disdain as Garen sheepishly smiled, scratching his head and apologizing profusely for the champagne he had just spilled all over the floor before her.

Darius dryly observed, "Wow. He really wants to get inside her pants."

Swain wore a twisted smile as he gruffly chuckled again. "But of course he does. We know all too well about Garen's weakness for fiery redheads, yes?"

Darius laughed openly at that one. "Yes. Yes, we do."

Leona was handling Garen's awkwardly blatant courtship attempts with a graceful smile and complete aplomb, while a scowling Lux hovered in the background, apparently unhappy with the manner in which her brother was embarrassing himself...

"She joined the League less than two months ago, and she instantly became one of the most popular champions." Swain was no longer smiling as he reclined back in his armchair, forefinger resting against temple. "Women adore her for her strength, beauty, and elegance. Men adore her also, although..." He nodded to the holo crystal, where the Demacian crystal operator had zoomed up close onto Garen's enchanted face. "They adore her mostly for her beauty, I suppose."

"Well, to be fair, she is a handsome woman."

"True." Swain did not care to continue this line of conversation, and he switched tracks. "She is not just Rakkoran, however. She belongs to a subsect of Rakkorans called the Solari. Do you know who the Solari are?"

Darius shrugged. "All I know is that they are some sort of Rakkoran cult that worships the sun as their deity."

"In this case, 'clan' would be a more appropriate word than 'cult'. The Rakkorans view the Solari as those who have been enlightened, and although it seems they do not communicate often, the Rakkorans heed the words of the Solari as divine guidance." The holo crystal switched back to Leona, who was trying her best to excuse herself from Garen's presence. "And as the champion of the Solari, this Leona wields a great deal of influence over both the Rakkorans and the Solari."

Darius didn't know what to say, other than to simply nod and grunt in affirmation. Swain was obviously trying to make a point here, but Darius couldn't yet see what he was driving at...

Swain continued. "You know of their Rite of Kor, yes?"

"Yes, I do."

"A reporter asked her recently about their infamous ceremony and, although she was not forthcoming with details, she did make it clear that she did not kill her opponent when given the chance."

"Oh?" Darius raised a brow at that. "But isn't that the whole point of their rite? Culling the weak within their crop of youngsters?"

"It is. However, she said that she does not believe in senseless killing."

"So she is something of a pacifist who happens to carry a shield and a sword."

"One might say that." Swain then gestured with his free hand to the other holo crystal. "And then we have the other Rakkoran champion. The one named Pantheon."

Darius looked to the other crystal, where the highlights of a recent League match were being shown. Apparently the number one highlight of the day was that of a gleeful Pantheon dropkicking the yordle champion Teemo across a river.

"He is a formidable adversary," Darius intoned. "One of the strongest foes I have faced in the League."

"Even for a Rakkoran, he is quite the brute, isn't he? In terms of sheer physical prowess, he probably has no equal in the League, I think."

Darius chafed a little at Swain's assessment since he thought pretty damn highly of himself and his own physical abilities. But he had to admit, there were certainly things which Pantheon could do that Darius could only dream of - the most obvious being the unique ability of Pantheon to launch himself over anything short of a mountain peak. Even considering the relic footwear which he most certainly wore, his leaping feats were awe inspiring, bordering on ludicrous. Something no one had ever done before, even the other Rakkoran champions who preceded Pantheon.

"He is much more of a typical Rakkoran than Leona is," Swain continued. "Pugnacious. Insociable. Warmongering. Much like his predecessor, Jagen."

"Mmm." Darius nodded.

"So." Swain sat up straight in his armchair, fingers intertwined before his stomach. "We have two Rakkoran champions. Leona and Pantheon. Now, I ask you this. Judging from what we have seen so far, which one poses the bigger threat to Noxus?"

The burly soldier had no initial response to Swain's pop quiz, utterly tongue tied as he squeezed his eyes in confusion at the unexpected question. For all of Rakkor's chest thumping and Noxus' imperialistic tendencies, the number of clashes between the two nations were actually very few in number over the years. The Rakkorans made their home in a remote mountain range of little strategic importance, which meant Noxus had little incentive to stick their nose into the rocky valley known as the Tiger's Den. Darius himself had never fought a Rakkoran outside of the League's Summoners Rift. He knew at most four men, or maybe five, who had clashed with Rakkoran soldiers on an actual battlefield (Swain being one of them).

Darius postponed his answer by asking Swain a question of his own: "Why do you ask this, Grand General? Do you expect Rakkor to declare war on us in the near future?"

"No, I do not."

Swain's answer only served to confuse Darius even further as to why this was even a subject worth discussing. His face scrunched so that his lower lip disappeared under his upper lip, and he finally said, "Well, having crossed swords with both Pantheon and Leona..." Purely a figure of speech on his part, of course, regarding the crossing of swords (Darius' weapon of choice was his monstrous battle axe, not some measly sword). "I would say that Pantheon is the more formidable warrior. And although they both fight with the ferocity of lions, he possesses a manic blood lust which she seems to lack. And in terms of foreign relations, he is far more aggressive and hostile."

Darius sat up on his stool now, confident in his reasoning as he declared, "I say Pantheon is the more dangerous of the two."

All it took was one look at Swain's still face. The Grand General bore no smile or frown, but his disappointment was palpable nonetheless. The irrepressible red heat of embarrassment spread throughout Darius' neck and face, as he quickly said, "You believe Leona to be the more dangerous."

Swain nodded with absolute certainty. "She is. As a matter of fact, she is the most dangerous Rakkoran champion to ever grace the League."

Darius wanted to know. "What makes you think this? She behaves so differently from a typical Rakkoran, yet she is the most dangerous of them all?"

"You have just answered yourself, Darius. She is dangerous precisely because she does not have the mindset of a typical Rakkoran. However, to understand the danger she poses, let us discuss the shortcomings of the Rakkorans first." Swain sank into his chair now, his intertwined fingers flexing gently. "Tell me, Darius, why have we always considered Rakkor to be a relative non factor despite its reputation for military prowess?"

Darius knew the answer to the question, of course; he had been an exceptional student during his years at the military academy, devouring all the textbooks he came across. "The Rakkorans are fearsome warriors, but they have never been a major threat to us for two reasons. They are isolationist by nature and their numbers are perpetually limited due to their constant self-purging of inferior genetics. They excel in small skirmishes and guerilla warfare, but they simply do not have the numbers to overwhelm us or another similarly large nation like Demacia."

"Well stated. Now, consider the mindset of someone like Leona, who clearly disagrees with Rakkor's current policies on both domestic and foreign fronts. She opposes the Rite of Kor. She embraces all opportunities to open dialogues with other nations. And because her people hail her as a virtual deity, the other Rakkoran leaders will never disown her, at least not openly, for her behavior.

"So, if you were in her shoes, Darius, what would you do?"

Darius finally started to see what Swain was driving at. "I would attempt to use my influence and status to change the policies of Rakkor." He sat back now on his stool with a loud creak. "But this is all speculation on your part, Grand General. So far, all she has done is hobnob and mingle like a socialite at League functions. She has yet to declare any actual foreign policy announcements during those gatherings."

"True. There is no guarantee that her exchanging pleasantries with blue-balled Demacian idiots is a surefire harbinger of her leading Rakkor out of the dark ages. And it would be exceedingly difficult for her to go against two thousand years of tradition and change the ways of a culture as narrow-minded as the Rakkorans'. But I believe that she will try. She will try to lead them out of the Tiger's den and the dark ages they live in; and if she is successful, mark my words, an enlightened Rakkor would become an extreme threat to Noxus.

"And let us not beat around the bush. Although the Rakkorans have been killing themselves off like savages for many centuries, they did achieve their end goal of genetic superiority. They truly have culled the weak from their bloodlines and, as a result, the average Rakkoran is made of sterner stuff than the average Noxian or Demacian. If the Rite of Kor were to be abolished, and their numbers were to drastically increase over the next two hundred or three hundred years?"

Darius felt genuine unease for the first time since entering the living and breathing tower of Swain and, again, he answered a question of Swain's with his own question: "And if she reaches out to forge an alliance with Demacia..."

As if on cue, Swain's ears picked out something from the ongoing muted sounds of the holo crystal broadcasting the League function. He held up a gnarled hand, its curled fingers predisposed to the shape of his cane's knobby handle.

"Wait. Listen."

Darius held still as the holo crystal issued forth the excited voice of an unseen reporter. "... in a stunning development, we have learned that Leona of the Solari has proposed to open the first ever trade route between Rakkor and Demacia! Details are still coming in, but Prince Jarvan the Fourth has shown great interest in the proposal, and..."

Swain and Darius ignored the reporter's voice as the holo crystal zoomed in on Leona's serious smile as she waved her hands around, describing something in great length to a thoughtful-looking Jarvan IV, the prince nodding occasionally...

The Hand of Noxus's face steeled in consternation. "It is unfolding exactly as you predicted, Grand General. Even as we speak, she is literally paving the road towards a political alliance with Demacia."

Swain nodded. "It is as I feared." He sighed as he rested the back of his head against his chair. "Tell the Royal Council that I will be coming down shortly. We immediately begin to make plans to march for Rakkor. And our top priority is - "

Darius swiftly stood up with a grim nod, his stool groaning one last time. "I will bring her pretty head to you myself."

The general and his raven nodded in unison as he reached forward to wave a hand over the holo crystal, and the holo crystal started to die out... the last image being that of a smiling Leona, slowly fading away into nothingness...

END OF CHAPTER

Notes: Dun dun dun, the main villains have appeared! Darius and Swain so evil! Or something. Anyway, I'm portrayed Leona as a revolutionary type of person who wants to change Rakkor because, quite honestly, she seems like someone who would do that. She grow up in a culture that basically brainwashes you into thinking that it is ok to kill your friends in some ceremony, yet she still opposes it. That's the foundation of a revolutionary mindset, imo. Plus, she has the clout to promote her opinions, her being a champion and chosen by her gods, so I think it makes sense she would try to change her country's ways. Pretty hard to argue with someone who shoots giant solar beams of divine power.

Notice her contrast with Pantheon, btw. While she disagrees with Rakkor's policies and traditions, he's mentioned in the lore as being the exemplary Rakkor soldier. So I imagine him as being a more "typical" Rakkor, a guy who has bought wholeheartedly into the Rakkor way and doesn't see anything wrong with their lifestyle. But he still loves Leona. DAWWWW. Haw haw haw.

As always, please leave any feedback and constructive criticism you might have. I am always striving to improve my writing, need inputssss!


	4. Champion

Leathery lips and cheeks pulsating with each puff on his pipe, old man baker Ralmor reached up to scratch his salt and pepper sideburns with flour-coated fingers. His ruined left eye still grayed over and unseeing. Still framed by ugly and considerable scar tissue. His right eye, though, still as sharp as ever. Scouring the early morning horizon for anything of interest as the sun began to peek over the edge, its radiance spilling over the edge of his bakery's porch and bathing his exposed hairy toes with its warmth...

There was nothing of note in the far distance or the immediate foreground. Featureless skyline and deserted streets lay before him.

Now that their sun had arrived, only now was the village beginning to stir. Ralmor always fancied that, over the years spent on his porch every morning, he had acquired a tangible feel of the town's pulse. And the pulse was beginning to rise. The empty streets would be filled soon enough, bustling with scampering children and striding adults as they criss crossed towards various destinations. Laughter, conversations, arguments would fill his ears. Feet big and small would tread onto his porch. His door would swing open and shut constantly. The lonely baker would enjoy the company of his customers.

For now, however, he enjoyed the peaceful silence and calm, marred only by the insistent chirping of bright-eyed songbirds. His early-morning baking routine, while lonely, was also soothing in its consistency. And if nothing else, early morning was when his body felt best. When the chronic pain seething inside his old war-torn joints burned dullest.

"Snap out of it, old man."

The words were practically in his ear and Ralmor jumped out of his old bones at the sudden and curt greeting, pipe nearly tumbling out of his mouth. Even before he turned to face his first customer for the day, he was already cursing under his breath. That goddamn brat! Usually the brat approached the bakery from the south street every morning for his daily loaf of bread. Every once in a while, though, he took it upon himself to sneak up on the old man and scare the bejeezus out of him. He always did it on mornings when Ralmor's mind drifted out farthest, and without fail. Not a coincidence, Ralmor had decided long ago. Every morning, the brat probably hid behind various corners to study his prey before approaching, like how a wolf on the hunt would first study the movements of a decrepit elderly moose.

Ralmor supposed that he should stop thinking of Markus as a brat, however, as he turned his head just in time, his good eye catching a glimpse of a mammoth shadow. A mammoth shadow moving with slippery stealth as it disappeared into the bakery behind him. Over the years, the "brat" had erupted into some sort of hulking muscle-bound monstrosity, now a full head and a half taller than the stocky baker. The reversal of the physical dynamic between the two amused Ralmor to no end. There was once a time when he had to aim downwards to flick a kernel of wheat off the goofy oversized helmet of the little smart-mouthed brat. But now? Far more likely that the brat could simply flick Ralmor himself through a wall or two.

This pleased Ralmor, actually. For while he had taken part in his own share of glorious battles during his time as a soldier, he had a feeling that, when it was all said and done, his greatest contribution to Rakkor would be the fact that he baked loaves of bread. Bread which this brat loved to eat. Bread which had fueled the brat's growth from boy to man. From man to champion.

No, not a brat anymore. Not even Markus anymore, really. The brat now bore the tribal name given to the one pegged to become their mightiest warrior of the current era, who would someday take the reins of their villages...

He was Pantheon.

Pantheon Markus, to be exact. Not to be confused with Pantheon Jagen, Pantheon Augustus, or the other previous Pantheons of history. And right now, Pantheon Markus was walking out of the bakery with a pair of fresh loaves clutched in one giant hand and a small golden coin offered by the other.

A flick of the thumb, and the coin was sent spinning high into the air with a muted ping. The golden shimmer arced gracefully upwards, then downwards. Right into Ralmor's awaiting floured hand.

Transaction over and done with, Pantheon now both grinned and sneered from within his helmet. "Glad to see you're finally awake, old man."

Ralmor grunted dismissively with an excuse as he waved away the brat. "You got me from my blind spot, that's all."

"Didn't know your ears had a blind spot." Pantheon was already ripping a chunk of bread free and stuffing it into his mouth. "Or maybe they can't hear anything because they're full of grey hair."

"More likely they've learned to tune out the blabber from your mouth." The baker dropped the coin into a pocket of his apron. "Any exciting news of late?"

The young man shrugged. "Nothing you haven't already heard about."

Of course, Pantheon was referring to Leona's recent proposal that Rakkor form an official trade route with Demacia. Her proposal had caught the elders of Rakkor completely by surprise, mostly due to one simple reason: she had not bothered to consult with them before going to Prince Jarvan IV himself with her proposal. This caused quite the uproar among the elders, understandably enough (albeit a somewhat private uproar, since none of the elders dared to openly oppose a chosen one). Not only was she dictating Rakkoran foreign policy from her place among the lofty peaks of Targon, she clearly expected the elders to fall in line with her will.

Granted, historically speaking, the Rakkorans always followed the lead of their chosen ones... but still! None of the other chosen ones had ever broken with tradition in such a brazen fashion. A potential peacetime alliance with an outside nation? Absolutely unheard of. The Rakkor did not acquire allies via diplomacy or negotiation. They acquired "allies" via brutish displays of military superiority.

Never before had a chosen one deliberately blurred the boundaries between Solari guidance and Rakkoran governance like Leona did. But while the elders ranted and gnashed their teeth from within the privacy of their chambers, the youngest of the village's leaders, Pantheon Markus, had merely smiled in exasperation when he first heard of her outrageous proposal. That was so her. So Leona.

Ralmor raised an eyebrow at Pantheon's indifferent shrug just now. "Nothing exciting? Noxus will make their move eventually, you know. They will not sit idly if we form a trade route with Demacia. As a matter of fact, they will strike sooner than later, methinks. They will strike before we and Demacia develop any sort of relationship or dependencies."

Another shrug of indifference. "I know. But until we fight? Nothing exciting."

Spoken like a man with complete indifference to politics, Ralmor wryly thought to himself. Yes, the leaders of Rakkor were always soldiers first and politicians second. But even then, Pantheon was an extreme case when it came to political apathy. Always disinterested during the few town meetings that he was required to attend. Utterly nonplussed by Leona's rocking the boat with Demacia and Noxus. For Pantheon, the actual swinging of swords and spears was where the true excitement was at. The buildup beforehand meant little to him. Especially if lots of words were involved.

Ralmor changed the subject. "Do you know if Leona will come down soon from Targon's peak to explain her course of action to the elders?" His tone was careful and respectful now that he was directly broaching the subject of their chosen one. The chosen one who, coincidentally, had pretty much declared herself to be Pantheon's woman on that fateful day of her Rite of Kor.

A dim yet hopeful gleam shone from deep within Pantheon's eye as his jaw slowly and thoughtfully chewed on bread. "She will, I think. I have not heard anything yet, but yes, I think she will... at the very least, she and the Solari will certainly come down when Noxus moves against us. Or if we strike Noxus first. The Solari will stand with us in battle. That much is certain..."

The champion swallowed down the bread and lapsed into a brooding stillness. His most common reaction whenever reminded of Leona's seemingly eternal absence from her hometown village. And her seemingly eternal absence from his life. Resigning himself to the fates which he and she shared. Or more precisely, the fates which they did not share. One chosen by his village. The other chosen by her gods.

And yet, while Pantheon brooded with a morose face, despite the gloomy tautness of straight thin lips... an intangible smile lurked somewhere inside his helmet as fond memories shuttled one by one through his mind's window. It was only during moments like these, Ralmor thought, where Pantheon Markus seemed truly happy. Moments when he paused to think of her.

Such moments were rare and fleeting, however, as Pantheon abruptly roused himself out of his trance. When dealt an unfortunate hand, true soldiers did not wail their woes and beat their bare chests in despair. They moved forward and they persevered. That was the Rakkoran way.

He turned to leave, short efficient movement like that of a programmed automaton as he faced north towards the village's main training grounds. Only one loaf of bread in his hands now, the other loaf already having fallen victim to his ravenous appetite. His morning training routine awaited.

The champion of Rakkor bid goodbye to the town baker: "Clean your ears out, old man."

The baker grunted farewell in kind: "Go jump into a well for all I care."

The warrior stepped off the porch and onto the ashy brick road, walking with that eerie grace for a man so tall, still moving with the nimbleness of the street urchin that he once was. His eyes looked forward, straight ahead to the rosy orange skyline. And while Ralmor earlier had seen nothing on the horizon, Pantheon saw differently.

For when Pantheon looked to the horizon, he saw the two things he yearned for most. War. Sun.

END OF CHAPTER

Notes: Brought back Ralmor the old baker to help illustrate the differences between Pantheon then and Pantheon now. Mostly the physical differences between them now, I suppose.

As always, please leave any feedback and constructive criticism you might have. I am always striving to improve my writing, need inputssss!


	5. Temptation

_One Year Ago_

Of the various routes one could take from Rakkor to Demacia, the three young men were taking one of the longest, an eternally winding trail which mostly traveled along mountain peaks and mesas. The road occasionally strayed from higher ground, dipping down into a fertile valley here, a barren canyon there. For the most part, though, the young men and their horses were on top of the world with an unobstructed view of the terrain below them. Pantheon had chosen this route explicitly for this purpose; the advantage gained by higher ground was the most elementary of battle tactics.

Not that he was particularly expecting trouble during his trek to Demacia. This current era was one of relative peace, and Rakkor did not have any declared enemies among the major nations. For all of his disdain of the League, he had to admit that the League was moderately successful so far in its quest to rid Runeterra of large-scale warfare.

Nonetheless, as his midnight black stallion trotted through a narrow canyon flanked by towering red rock cliffs, scree sent skittering with each hoofed step, Pantheon's head slowly turned this way and that, surveying everything before him, above him, behind him. One could never be too sure, too safe. Bandits still thrived throughout Runeterra, a pestilence plaguing any route which saw regular traffic. This particular region was also somewhat prone to landslides. Whether it be ambushing bandits, falling rocks, or a hardly coincidental combination of the two, uneventful trips could turn eventful in a hurry when one least expected it.

His two travel partners also mimicked their leader, their heads twisting this way and that to assess their surroundings. Unlike the taciturn Pantheon, however, whose lips were drawn shut into a thin grumpy line, their mouths were wide open, smiling, and flapping as they babbled non stop about the most inane things. Even worse, they happened to be twins with virtually the same exact voice and thought process, and they loved to complete each others' sentences even while the other was speaking; this ensured that every other stupid little thing they uttered and pondered, Pantheon would hear in stereo.

And right now, like most young men on the verge of entering the third decade of their life are prone to do, they were discussing a subject of the utmost importance...

Women.

Castor, he of the raven-black hair and sharp handsome face, mused out loud as he scratched his chin in a futile attempt to appear intellectual: "Hmmm, I hear that Demacian women are susceptible to whispers of romance and endearment this time of year... something to do with the blooming season of their national flower, I believe..."

Pollux, he of the raven-black hair and the slightly more handsome face (according to him, at least), nodded in agreement. "It was Constantine who told you this, yes? He who has been to Demacia several times while accompanying Jagen?"

Castor nodded at the reference to the most elderly advisor of their tribe leader. "Constantine has filled my innocent ears with wondrously lewd tales featuring adventurous Demacians of the female persuasion, to the point where I expect to be welcomed at the Demacian border by a beautiful scantily-clad lady with..."

Pollux chimed in to complete his brother's sentence: "... a scantily-clad lady with both open arms and open legs!"

They guffawed as one. The twins loved to jest about the synchronized spreading of women's limbs in such a manner. Their crude confidence was not without basis, however; it was not terribly difficult for either of them to coax a young woman into laying with him (or, on occasion, with both of them) for a night, due to their astoundingly good looks, considerable prowess on the battlefield, and their current status as single young men who were not yet spoken for.

Pollux continued to outline his and his brother's expectations regarding Demacian hospitality: "The average Demacian woman is of smaller build than the average Rakkoran woman, yes? Oh, I do hope this means they are also tighter, oh yes I do! Can you imagine what it must be like, dear brother? It would be like breaking a virgin over, and over, and over, and over..."

An enthusiastically nodding Castor decided that it was time for the silent Pantheon to make a contribution to their discussion. So he called ahead to their revered champion:

"Hey, Pantheon, ya gonna **** a Demacian woman when we get there?"

A curt growl. "No. And keep your voices down, you imbeciles."

Pantheon continued his survey of the red canyon, not bothering to turn his helmet back towards his harriers. Yet the grinning twins just knew that his lips and nose were scrunching into that one particular snarl of his. Pantheon's face always curled up into that frustrated snarl whenever he was reminded of the fact that he, the mightiest warrior of Rakkor, the League champion of Rakkor, and easily the most eligible bachelor of Rakkor... was still a freaking virgin at the ripe old age of twenty.

Actually, his title of "most eligible bachelor" was something of a misnomer. The term "bachelor" implied that he was not spoken for. That he had not yet found the woman of his life. And of course, this was not true for Pantheon. Everyone knew who his woman was. She was the chosen one. Their sun. The Radiant Dawn of the Solari herself, Leona.

The twins were glad for their moody friend. They really were. After all, from what they could recall, Leona was a frighteningly beautiful woman with a body that was the absolute epitome of perfection for a Rakkoran female (basically, a body of overwhelming size in all the right places, both functional and aesthetic). Granted, she was a bit hard in the head and had almost gotten herself needlessly killed during her Rite of Kor, but hey, no one was perfect.

The only problem was this. She lived way up there on the peak of Mount Targon. Pantheon lived way down there within the Rakkoran's main village. Ideal arrangement for carrying out their duty. Not so ideal for tapping that booty. Casual contact between the Solari and the Rakkor was not allowed either, which meant no visits of the friendly, let alone conjugal, sort.

Even more frustrating for Pantheon was the fact that, _technically_, he could fritter about with other women and not be committing _official_ infidelity. Because, after all, _technically_, he was not _officially_ spoken for. He and Leona had not performed the ceremony of union. They had not exchanged vows. They were not officially one as of yet.

Technicalities were one thing, however. Reality was another thing altogether. And the reality was, when Leona had taken his hands into hers and asked him to wait for her, she had not done it just for his benefit. Her open display of affection had also aimed squarely at all the other young Rakkoran women who constantly threw naughty and flirtatious glances at Pantheon and did all sorts of little things to catch his eye. It was no accident that when she asked him to wait for her, Leona had used, nearly word for word, one of the vows recited during the ceremony of union. Leona was staking her claim, marking her territory, call it what you will. Pantheon was _her_ man. Keep your mitts off him while I am away, ladies.

For all the rampant testosterone within the male populace of Rakkor, infidelity was actually not as much of a problem as an uninformed outsider might think. This was mostly due to the fact that, while wronged women of other cultures often ran about wringing their hands in dismay and wondering what they did wrong, a Rakkoran woman simply resorted to what the Rakkorans did best: violence. A wronged Rakkoran woman was legally allowed (most would say obliged) to challenge the homewrecker to a duel to the death. And if she was able to cut down the homewrecker, the estranged wife also had the right to challenge her former husband to a similar sort of duel, her ultimate goal being the severing of his head. It was worth noting that in a couple particularly famous cases, the head which a victorious ex-wife chose to sever was not the one that rested on top of his shoulders.

This was why Rakkoran couples often did not take their vows until they were a little bit older, wiser, and absolutely sure that they could tolerate each other for the rest of their lives. This was also the reason why young and single Rakkorans were as promiscuous as bunny rabbits in the bushes. Best to get as much of the curiosity and excitement out of their systems while they still could.

Castor and Pollux were very typical young and single Rakkorans in this regard. Poor Pantheon, on the other hand... not so much. It was fascinating, actually, to watch the contradictory actions of the many young women who obviously found him attractive, yet were terrified to say anything to him other than minimal greetings and farewells. Some did not even dare to walk on the same side of the street as him. So what if he was not officially hitched to Leona just yet. The only thing that mattered was that in Leona's mind, he belonged to her. And none of the Rakkoran women dared to be on the bad side of the chosen one. They were not necessarily afraid to clash swords with one even as mighty as Leona; after all, the women were just as pugnacious as the men, if not more so. They were, however, very much afraid of offending the gods which clearly had Leona's back. Many Rakkorans believed that Leona and Pantheon were a couple of destiny, fated from inception to be together; it was far too much of a coincidence that two childhood best friends, of opposite gender and as close as peas in a pod, would blossom into both the mightiest warriors and the handsomest couple of their generation. And the woman also happened to be a chosen one? Surely this pairing was that of divine will. And surely any attempt to break up the pair would be perceived by the gods as an act of defiance, if not sacrilege.

So while the other young Rakkorans frolicked with each other in their bedrooms after hours, Pantheon often spent his nights alone with an almost comical face of stone, slowly sharpening and shining the treasured weapons, shield, and armor bequeathed to him by his people. Once, in an ill-fated attempt to cheer up the rumbling pressure cooker of sexual frustration otherwise known as Pantheon, Pollux had suggested that the champion glue several locks of red hair to the knuckles of his right hand and name his right hand Leona. Pantheon had wordlessly responded with a single punch, breaking Pollux's nose in three places and knocking him straight into a hospital bed with a mild concussion. Needless to say, that was the first and last time either of the twins would crack a lewd joke involving her.

And yet, despite the broken noses that occurred outside of sparring (Pantheon had also broken Castor's nose once during a silly argument over the best method to sharpen a spear head) and his perpetual snarling at their scatter-brained chatter, the twins genuinely adored Pantheon. Certainly there was a healthy element of hero worship in their affection for him, but the twins were genuinely tickled and amused by his reclusive personality. And despite his propensity for random acts of violence, Pantheon was actually quite the patient man. The twins knew this because most men simply walked out on the two whenever they started prattling to each other; Pantheon, on the other hand, usually just sat there and endured as he continued to do whatever he happened to be doing at the moment. For sure, he would growl once in a while if they said something especially stupid, but generally the growls were of token exasperation and sorely lacking in conviction. Definitely more bark than bite.

Why did he tolerate them so? Surely their endless banter and brotherly atmosphere helped to fill the vacuum of loneliness that resided within the orphan's heart. But it was mostly his single-minded personality, the twins had long ago concluded, which allowed him to tolerate their loquaciousness. All Pantheon cared about was the art of fighting. Action meant much to him. Words meant little. The old cliché about words going into one ear and out the other was Pantheon personified, really. So long as one did not interfere with Pantheon's never-ending quest to improve his fighting prowess and physical condition, Pantheon really did not care a whit about the nonsense that one's mouth might be spewing. Unless that mouth was trying to tell the Rakkoran champion how he should properly sharpen his spear. And, admittedly, that argument had been Castor's fault. Castor had known that Pantheon was in the right; the older twin just hated to lose arguments, that was all.

So when Pantheon received his very first invitation to a League public relations function, hosted within the walls of Demacia's capital city, the selection process of his travel partners had been a mere formality. Not only were the twins the closest approximations to friends that the introverted champion had, as far as appearances were concerned, they were very impressive indeed with their handsome countenances and imposing physiques. For this League function, the brothers would be ideal representatives of Rakkor... so long as they did not speak too much. Or fool around with someone's wife.

When informed that they were to travel to Demacia, the twins reacted with glee. Predictably enough, however, Pantheon initially balked at the invitation. Already harboring ample dislike for town meetings and the amount of bluster and grandstanding involved, he had little doubt that he would go bonkers if he were crammed into a room with a bunch of saccharin-tongued foreigners and their superficial friendly platitudes. But the elders had insisted that he make the trek to Demacia. Although Rakkor loved to sneer at the League's pipe dream of a goal to attain some semblance of regulated world peace, the League was still composed of a formidable cabal of magi and mystics that was not to be trifled with. If Rakkor was going to reject an offer from the League and infuriate the League council, it would have to be for a reason far more important than "Pantheon hates socialites".

So it was decided. Pantheon would be traveling to Demacia to attend this League function. And for better or worse, the twins would be going with him. Their primary objective was to let everyone know that Rakkor should not be forgotten amidst all the cross-country debates about who was the strongest nation of them all. Their secondary objective would be to correct the popular misconception that the Rakkorans were little more than a bunch of primitive and barbaric savages who killed each other at the drop of a hat.

For Pantheon, it would be difficult to accomplish both objectives at the same time. This was because he usually convinced others of his superiority by grinding their faces into the dirt until they begged for mercy. And it would simply not do if he spent his entire time in Demacia shoving the faces of other men into the ground. So the elders made sure to assign a tutor to Pantheon during the two weeks leading up to the League event. Someone wise and experienced in the manners of foreign diplomacy. Someone whose tact and restraint might rub off a bit onto him.

This particular person was the wife of the tribe leader Jagen, an extremely tall and long-limbed woman who would be deemed gangly if not for her impeccable posture. Her name was Octavia and, once upon a time decades ago, she had been a League champion like her husband. Not only that, she had once been the most feared archer in all of Runeterra; even now, in her mid forties, the Rakkor's greatest relic bow, the Tiger's Fang, still rested on her back wherever she went. Pantheon liked her more than he did her husband. Unlike Jagen, who was prone to grandiosity and hyperbole during the elders meetings, Octavaia's words were always quiet, precise, and straight to the point. Much like her arrows.

Even then, Pantheon could not remember much of what she had told him. Conversations of politics and diplomacy always made his eyes glaze over and his mind drift off. But he did remember one particular night very well, the most vivid memories starting off with her warning about the temptations he would encounter while in Demacia...

Early evening, she strode into his spartan (hah!) domicile at the scheduled time, regal and elegant as ever, her rangy body within its customary pristine white stola adorned with silken royal purple sashes. Her engraved steelwood bow, the Tiger's Fang, present on her back as always. A beautiful and severe dark brunette with her hair drawn back tight into a somber bun, she wasted no time as her archer's eyes swept over the saluting Pantheon. He was still clad in his battle armor from the day's training sessions; his ceremonial suit of armor lay off to the side in a disheveled pile, barely more than an afterthought. And, she noted with an internal groan, the combat savant was still wearing his blasted helmet indoors like a village idiot.

The room's lanterns were unnecessarily bright as always, giving Octavia the impression that Pantheon set them so to compensate for something he lacked. Or more likely, someone he missed. Either way, the artificial light was more than sufficient to show her the spots and streaks which still remained on his ceremonial armor.

She extended one long arm, tipped with a condemning finger. "Your ceremonial armor. Polish it again."

He had grumbled a bit about the pointlessness of maintaining what he considered to be "fake" armor (ironically, his actual battle armor, while far more worn, was always exquisitely clean and polished in order to eliminate any chance of corrosion), but he had begun to do what she demanded. And while he sat on a stool with a shiny gold-laced greave on his lap, she stood with a watchful eye from behind his shoulder...

Then she suddenly said out of the blue, cutting right to the chase. "Pantheon Markus, it is important to her that she be your first."

His dutifully polishing hand stayed itself for a moment, and he raised his head to blink at her unexpected broaching of this topic. His mind, while top notch at processing anything related to warfare, was woefully slow when it came to women. And it showed as he thickly spoke like a drunken man smothered in cheesecloth: "What do you mean – ohhh, yes. That. There is no need to worry. That will not be a problem."

His words, while stilted, still conveyed indifference, almost flippancy. And she raised an eyebrow. "I think you underestimate the situation you will encounter, Pantheon Markus. The women there will not respect your relationship with Leona like the women do here in Rakkor, and they will be throwing themselves at you by the dozen."

"Hah, let them come! If I can deflect the arrows of a hundred archers with my shield, I can surely fend off the amorous advances of a few starstruck courtesans."

To emphasize his declaration, he flicked away at the air as if to bat aside the invisible gloved hands of a clingy wigged-and-powdered noble woman. Then he hunched back over his runed greave and resumed his polishing, unaware that, behind his back, Octavia was smiling quite wide at his choice of analogy. He really believed the matter would be that simple, did he? For a man so well-versed in countless fighting techniques and battle tactics, his obviously sharp mind was still simple-minded and child-like in many ways. The children of the village certainly sensed this innocence about their champion, at least, seeing him as both a superhuman hero and a kindred spirit. They constantly flocked to him as if he were the Pied Piper of Rakkor, following him on the streets wherever he went, tugging on his clothing, and always begging for him to jump, jump, jump! He would growl at the pestering children much like how he would growl at those pebble-brained twins, twisting and turning his body away in a token attempt to free himself from their clutches. But in the end, he always jumped. And the children would scream in delight and clap their hands as he landed lightly onto a nearby hilltop, onto the furthest guard tower, or whatever destination he happened to fancy at the moment.

Perhaps, as the years passed by and he grew out of his youth into a man of even higher stature, he would become jaded and truly distant. Perhaps he would turn deaf ears to the children's pleas and keep his feet rooted to the ground. Octavia did not think this could happen, however. There was something incorruptible about him. Something above and beyond the gaudy trappings and laurels that came along with status and prestige. Certainly, this was a large part of what made him so attractive to one as idealistic as Leona. And to other women, as well.

Her long right hand slipped onto his left shoulder and gave the armor pad there a single pat of affirmation. "It is well, then. I am glad to hear that you are trained in the art of shunning women."

Her faint tongue-in-cheek jab was not lost upon him. He raised his head again (although this time, he continued his polishing) and said to the empty space before him: "You think I jest, Octavia?"

"Of course not. I am sure you mean your words with every fiber of your being, Pantheon Markus. But I do not think a woman has yet to truly test your resolve, am I correct?"

He hesitated. "Well, I suppose that is true... but regardless, there is no way I would ever find a flimsy limp-wristed Demacian woman to be as attractive as a Rakkoran woman."

"Not all of the women at the event will be pasty socialites and powdered courtesans. They have their share of capable warriors also... you faced one of them recently on the Summoners' Rift, did you not? The Crownguard's daughter?"

"Luxanna Crownguard? Ehhhh." Pantheon wrinkled his nose at that name and the creepy bright smile associated with it. "She is an impressive woman, even for a trickster mage. But..."

"But?"

"When I conversed with her afterward, I could not help but feel that she was a little... off?"

To his surprise, Octavia burst out into laughter at this, and he became dimly aware that the fingers of her right hand were now dancing along the warm shoulder pad of his battle armor. "Interesting choice of words, my young Pantheon... and also accurate, I dare say." The fingers stilled for a moment. "If Luxanna is anything like her mother, it would behoove you to steer clear of her, lest she sink her claws into you."

The tribe matron's voice had abruptly taken on a bitter tone and he was puzzled by her odd and extremely specific warning. "If she is like her mother? Pardon?"

"You and Leona have not yet taken your vows... so Leona will most likely forgive you if you do something utterly stupid and foolish, since she strikes me as an especially magnanimous woman... mark my words, however. That stupid and foolish thing will be a sore sticking point between you two for the rest of your lives."

The woman's voice and face were now as tight as the bun atop her head. And suddenly the revelation smashed Pantheon upside the head, almost sending him falling from his chair. Was she actually implying that Jagen during his younger days... and the Crownguard matron... what in the world? Then again, on more than one occasion, he had detected a certain coldness radiating from her towards Jagen... and come to think of it, she _never_ failed to emit that unusually chilly aura of hers whenever Jagen was conversing with blonde women. He had thought that maybe she was the overly possessive or jealous type, but the past two minutes now painted their relationship in a whole new light...

He shook his head with absolute certainty. "I will not do anything stupid and foolish. Leona asked me to wait for her, and I will wait for her. I will _never_ do anything to violate her faith in me."

He then bent back down over his greave, all the while zealously nodding in an attempt to show that he understood what awaited him, Crownguards and all. To Octavia, however, all his overconfident and overzealous nodding did was show her the opposite: he really had no clue about the temptations that awaited a champion of the League. Well, she supposed that words could not adequately describe what he would experience. Especially to one as poor of a listener as he was.

With silent slippered feet, she glided past him and into his field of vision, apparently aiming to sit on the empty chair across the hearth. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, but he did not _see_ as his attention was currently focused on his task at hand...

An unexpected sound, rather than unexpected movement, triggered the first alarm in his head: the loud whisper of fine cloth rushing quickly against a woman's skin. He did not even have time to ponder before her clear voice cut in.

"Have you seen anything like this before, Pantheon Markus?"

Like the dutiful soldier he was, he swung his eyes upwards at her command without a second thought. And his eyes promptly bulged within their helmet at the sight of Octavia's amazingly long and utterly naked right leg, bared all the way to the waist where her hem was now bunched by one of her hands. Like any self-respecting Rakkoran, she took extremely good care of herself and, even at her age, her body was still as taut and supple as any. If he looked closely, he thought he could see the tiniest hint of looseness on the skin behind her knee, but even then, he was not sure -

What the hell was he doing looking at her knee? His eyes swept upwards, along her muscular thigh and to her strong tight haunch, the surface of her tanned roundness as smooth as that of a baby's skin -

No, no, no. What the hell was he doing looking at her, period? She was the wife of his leader, what was she doing, had she gone utterly crazy, _what was going on?_

And even as all this blitzed through his stupefied mind, he could not tear his eyes away from her leg as he drank in every line, curve, and hollow. It took a few moments for him to finally spot her undergarment. The most impractical strip of black lace, as thin as the string of her bow.

Her voice cut through his confusion, posing her initial question once again: "I asked you, Pantheon Markus. Have you seen anything like this before?"

Not knowing what else to say, he fell back onto the truth, his tongue smothered in cheesecloth once again. "No, I have not."

Her free hand (the one not grabbing great handfuls of dress) began to slide up the insides of her thigh, her fingertips caressing herself in an unmistakably sensual manner. "Does my leg tickle your fancy?"

"I, well, I - yes, of course!" His eyes started to go haywire as he looked around to make sure the shutters of his windows were closed. Thank the gods they were. "Octavia! What are you doing - "

Fwoomp! Both of her hands were free now as the length of her stola dropped back down to her ankles, leaving Pantheon both relieved and disappointed. Although the peepshow was done, apparently Octavia herself was not, for she now closed in on her champion, her face shockingly soft and gentle, half-lidded eyes smoldering with desire...

The dumbfounded man unconsciously leaned back and away inside his chair as she neared, to the point where he almost tipped over. But before he could spill himself onto the back of his head, she was behind him in an instant, steadying his chair with her frame as her long sinewy arms reached around to wrap themselves around his iron waist, twin boas constricting a common prey. Her searching hands snaked downwards, fingers slithering about, feeling for him...

"Ahhh... amazing..." Her lips were by his ears, apparently, and they were crowing in victory. "Truly worthy of a chosen one, yesss..."

And then, before he knew it, she was no longer by his side. She stood by his doorway, adjusting her attire and hair, regal and aloof once again. And she simply said as she looked downwards to make sure nothing was amiss with the skirt of her stola: "Expect something along those lines when you are in Demacia, Pantheon Markus."

His hands, amazingly enough, were on autopilot, still polishing the greave. His lips were on autopilot as well. "Oh. I see."

She smiled thinly. "My tutelage ends here. I wish you well on your trip." Her fingers now curled around his door latch much like they had curled around him. "If you wish to learn more, however, you may come by my quarters at any time." Her thin smile warped a bit now. "My door will always be open for you, my dear champion."

And then she was gone, his door shutting gently behind her.

Back to the trail within the red canyon. Pantheon, astride his black stallion, was shaking his head free of the forever lingering webs which that damn woman had woven. To this day, he was still not sure exactly why that witch had done what she did. And what the hell had Jagen done which left her so unhappy and vengeful? Surely there had to be more to it than simply a one-night fling with a foreign woman, even if the Crownguard woman had been his first. Or perhaps that offense alone was enough to earn a man an eternal burning grudge from his woman? Whatever this grudge, it ran so deep that she would eagerly wrap her legs around the one man who could defeat her husband in the death match that would surely ensue. That had to be her end game, yes? To find such a man and entice him into seizing the reins of their tribe from Jagen by lethal force. And then what? Leona would surely challenge her. And did Octavia really think she could defeat Leona, especially at her age? What a laughable concept! Or perhaps she did not care if she won or not; perhaps she was simply an envious bitch who sought only to ruin what Leona and Pantheon had.

The most shocking part of all this was that she would dare to fool around with the man of a chosen one. Then again, if there was a Rakkoran woman who would dare to defy the pairing of alleged destiny, it would have to be a woman like Octavia. Whatever it was that Octavia lacked, guts and intestinal fortitude were not among them.

There were only two things which Pantheon knew for sure. He was going to stay the hell away from that viper's nest of a marriage between Jagen and Octavia. And he was going to make damn sure that Leona would be his first. The cold Octavia and warm Leona were about as night and day as two women could be, but after seeing what Octavia was capable of, the thought of Leona hating and cursing him until her dying breath sincerely sickened him to his stomach.

His mind now lapsed into tangents as he thought of Leona, far and away and alone, surrounded by faceless men who, beneath their veneer as the righteous Solari, surely lusted for her. As utterly ridiculous, preposterous, and flat out offensive to Leona the concept might be, he could not help but wonder if she was so lonely, she already sought comfort in another man's arms. Before Octavia, he had not been concerned in the slightest about such things. This was freaking Leona he was talking about here. The most stubborn, hard headed, and iron willed person in all of Runeterra. Immediately after Octavia, however, with his idyllic views of marriage and love dashed to smithereens, it had proven difficult to keep the occasional unclean thoughts from his head. It got better over time, but all it took was an innocent hello and a knowing smile from a passing Octavia to set his innards into a roil all over again.

Any recollection of Octavia never failed to darken his mood and he was having one of those unclean thoughts right now concerning Leona's situation. Today's thoughts involved coercion. And although he was not a particularly imaginative man, his imagination was vivid enough to set his teeth gnashing and his mind spinning with paroxysms of murderous rage. Certainly one of those faceless men would never be able overpower her and have his way. But if they formed a group of many? Ten? Twenty? Dozens? They could. Would they? Who knew, really. The Rakkorans were brothers in arms with the Solari, yet the Rakkorans knew so little about them and their inner workings. Their higher calling might be pure in theory, but they were still men; and the one constant throughout history was that men of power were extremely susceptible to corruption.

Several times, Pantheon had asked the elders if he could go to the peak of Mount Targon and visit her. His requests never went anywhere, instantly rejected and cast aside without any semblance of deliberation. Rakkoran society was a culture firmly entrenched in tradition, and tradition dictated that if contact was to be made, it was the Solari who went to the Rakkorans, not the other way around. There were exceptions to the rule, mostly involving signs of divine intervention. Unfortunately, there were no exceptions to be made for a lonely man who missed his best friend. Even if the man happened to be champion and their mightiest warrior.

While Pantheon's mind swirled with aimless fury and the most improbable of dire scenarios, it took a moment for him to realize that Castor was shouting something at him with great urgency. It took another moment for him to realize he was inside a red canyon of the material world, not some amorphous phantasm of a Solari prison cell concocted by his brain. And he was completely off guard, vulnerable to the impending danger which Castor strove to warn him of.

No time to mentally flog himself for his inattentiveness. A hand dropped to his sword's hilt, his five senses immediately on full alert as he whipped his head around to his comrade. "What is it, Castor?"

"Luxanna Crownguard!" Castor shouted back with an utterly serious face that would serve him well at any poker table. "Would you fuck her?"

Pantheon blinked. Then he scrunched his face into a curdled expression most analogous to that of a rabid bull dog, as he resisted the overwhelming urge to leap onto Castor's horse and strangle him where he sat. Castor cringed from the possibility of yet another broken nose, not quite sure why Pantheon was so mad at him. Pollux cackled in delight at both his terrified brother and his pug-faced champion.

Pollux continued his brother's line of questioning. "I take that as a no, dear friend! But why not? I do not think the bedding of a Demacian would be a violation of your imaginary vows with Leona! Plundering the women of foreign lands is an unavoidable consequence of war! Like anyone else, we conquer the lands, pillage their fields, and ravish their women until they are short of breath and rid of clothing! If you bed Luxanna Crownguard, that must count as a conquest of sorts, yes? An impressive first notch for your currently unmarked belt!"

Pantheon gave Castor one last glare, then turned back to face the front. "I swear to the gods, Pollux, if you say anything of the sort to the Crownguards, I will hold you down myself while Garen stomps your stupid head into the ground.

Pollux frowned unhappily. "Are you saying that she is not worth the effort? Is she not as attractive in person as she appears to be on the holo crystals?"

Good gods, this man was hopeless. "Stop putting words into my mouth. Yes, she is attractive. But I do find her to be a little... off."

Castor decided it was safe to speak again. "Off, you say? A little kooky..."

Pollux finished, "... in the head?"

"Something along those lines."

Pollux then said in a hopeful tone, "Maybe she might just be crazy enough to throw herself at you. And in front of her horrified family, to boot! Wouldn't that be something!"

Pantheon rolled his eyes. "Right."

"Hey! My friend, we are just trying to get you laid! Leona may think it is important that she be your first, but we think it is far more important that you know what the hell you are doing when you finally make her into a woman! And come to think of it, what is the worst she can do if she is not your first? She does not believe in killing her comrades, right? So, at the very least, she will not try to kill you like most other Rakkor women would."

One of those rare moments where Pollux had a somewhat valid point. If Pantheon did something utterly stupid and foolish, most likely Leona would not attempt to cut off his head. However... Pantheon could easily imagine her smashing the flat of her sword against his forehead twenty times in a row. Gods knew how many times she had flattened his forehead during some of their more heated arguments in the past. She said she did it only because she knew his helmet could withstand the blunt force trauma. He had a feeling that, in this hypothetical case, she would demand he remove his helmet before she administered his punishment.

Pantheon tried his best to change the subject. "Perhaps you two have your hopes far too high. Has it occurred to you that, other than Luxanna, all the women there could be ugly and homely hags? She will be the only lady champion in attendance, after all."

The twins simultaneously recoiled in their saddles at his outrageous proposition, aghast that their friend could suggest such a horrific thing.

Castor: "Demacian women? Ugly? That is no joke! That is heresy, pure and simple!"

Pollux: "Have you gone mad! Hold your tongue, or you shall jinx us all!"

As it were, however, the twins' fears were unfounded. For one day later, on a sunny mid-afternoon, the Rakkor trio were deep within the walls of the Demacian capital. The League's social function was well under way. And, by the gods, there were _women_.

The gala was held in the rear gardens of the Lightshield family's palace, literally the backyard of Prince Jarvan IV (who was currently away on some quest to slay a dragon or two, according to the family's butlers). Gorgeous flowered plants and bushes were strewn everywhere in all sorts of intriguing (haphazard?) arrangements, presenting an ostentatious myriad of shapes and colors presumably designed to provoke deep thought. Interspersed within the flora were the fauna, consisting mostly of inordinately groomed people dressed in lavish costumes and opulent finery. A full-fledged orchestra played off to the side from within a semi-circle of giant ivory vases, their lilting harmonies given direction by the waving white gloves of a stuffy and scrawny moustached conductor. A constant unintelligible hubbub of gaiety floated above the throng, reminding Pantheon of the incessant babbling of content geese.

Freshly relieved of their weapons at the entrance by a large contingent of polite guards, the Rakkor now made their initial rounds of the seemingly endless gardens. The twins carried their helmets under their right arms, their handsome faces and broad smiles drawing many appreciative looks from members of the fairer sex. After some prodding from the two and with great reluctance, Pantheon also removed his helmet fifteen minutes in, feeling pathologically naked as he did so. If nothing else, he did this to prove to the world that the champion of Rakkor was not some hideous troll hiding behind a helmet and a pair of adonis companions. And of course, nothing else could be further from the truth because, upon the initial removal of his helmet, numerous discreetly observing eyes widened all around him.

Then the women, already trickling into his vicinity to vie for attention, started to come in droves. And the twins were absolutely besides themselves like kids in a candy store because these women were _beautiful_. Granted, the majority of the ladies were flimsy and limp-wristed little things, but even the glum Pantheon had to acknowledge their allure and appeal. For him to suggest otherwise would be a clear cut case of have not, want not. So many pretty faces and winsome smiles, subtly enhanced by makeup. So many bulging chests, not so subtly enhanced by painful-looking corsets. Very few exposed legs, however, much to the Rakkorans' chagrin. The invitation had specified that the dress code of this event would be similar to that of a ballroom since the organizers planned to move the event indoors once the sun set. And the large number of looming frilly ball gowns reflected the League's wishes. Most of the Demacian men were dressed in a white-tie manner. Most of the non-Demcian men were not, the most obvious being the three Rakkorans in their spick-and-span ceremonial armor.

The three men of Rakkor slowly made their way to the east for no particular reason. A steady stream of humanity flowed through and around the trio: a stream of gorgeous women, cordial summoners, pompous people of "importance", and the occasional League champion. And the one thing they all had in common was that Pantheon could not care less about them even if he tried.

The summoners were mostly magicians, and while most people found magic formidable, Pantheon merely found it irritating (cheap parlor tricks, he liked to say). Heavily powdered and perfumed noblemen were complimentary with an inadvertent touch of condescension. They gushed about his feats and clamored about his victories as if they had been there with him side by side. As if they knew what it felt like to hurl a spear or wield a sword, when it was patently obvious that none of them had ever taken part in an actual battle. The gorgeous women were good for an initial ogle or two, but none of them could even begin to compare to Leona. And they often talked about matters which he had zero interest in, causing his eyes to grow glassy and his jaw slack as he nodded like an agreeable automaton (Octavia had been very emphatic that he nod a lot while in the company of women). He did note with amusement that the boredom went both ways: whenever the twins talked for any length of time, quite a few of the women's eyes also assumed that same glassy sheen.

Thankfully, conversation with his fellow champions proved to be interesting at times. He supposed that if he had to pick a favorite among them, it would be Poppy. Mostly because she was a yordle of few words who seemed to hate being there, all of which he could definitely relate to (everything but the yordle part, that is). She spent most of her time sitting at a large round table by herself, eating anything that came her way and armwrestling anyone who dared to step up and test her might. Their conversation had been short and illuminating. She recommended that he try the rice pilaf and the ribs of the spit roast pigs, both of them seasoned with herbs native to Demacia. Her famous hammer was her father's creation. No, there was not another one like it. She had pinned the hand of every single opponent so far. He would have to get in line if he wanted to challenge her (the line at the time had to have been at least a hundred drunken men long). Pantheon politely declined her invitation to armwrestle. Partially because he hated standing in lines. Mostly because he didn't think he could live with himself if he lost to a yordle in a competition of strength.

The next champion he ran into was another yordle. Tristana, the trigger-happy cannoneer. Unlike the stolid and morose Poppy, this unsettling one was twitchy and hyper. Facial tics galore. Fingers constantly fidgeting. Especially the trigger finger. Their encounter had been as brief as her attention span. They happened to sit down next to each other by the side of a fossil-white marble water fountain, thus they were forced to exchange greetings. Neither of them cared to pursue the conversation beyond that. He had been occupied with a heaping plate of fragrant rice and mouth-watering ribs. She was trying her best to spy on the yordle champion Teemo without being too obvious. Apparently she was flustered by the bevy of female yordles who were currently swarming all around the famous scout. Pantheon assumed that the other yordles were females due to the number of predominantly pink flower blossoms that were tucked behind their ears and the huge ****-eating grin spread across Teemo's face as he played some sort of tag-you're-it game with them.

There were other champions and longer conversations, to be sure. However, if you asked Pantheon who made the biggest impression on him that sunny afternoon, he would not give you the name of someone who bore the title of champion that particular afternoon. With great reluctance, he would give you the name of someone else. And because the name happens to belong to a woman who is most definitely not Leona, it is extremely unlikely that he would elaborate any further on what exactly went down between those two that day. Doing so would greatly increase the risk of having his forehead smashed in repeatedly by the flat of a certain Solari's broadsword.

So, we shall gloss over these other champions for now. Brewmaster Gragas of Freljord. Ionian Udyr of Freljord. The Cryophoenix of Freljord. King Trundle of Freljord... the list goes on and on.

I suppose I can go into greater detail about Queen Ashe of Freljord and the Crownguard siblings of Freljord – err, Demacia. For in a way, they were the beginning to the end of Pantheon's innocence that day (that one evening with Octavia does not count because, while that had been a tumultuous experience in its own right, he did not do anything to her that he would later regret).

We fast forward to a couple hours later. Pantheon had finally stopped eating rice and ribs. The Rakkoran twins finally found a pair of young ladies who actually enjoyed their prattling ways. Currently, the four beautiful young people were yukking it up in their own little clique while Pantheon stood off to the side, cleaning his teeth with an enamel toothpick graciously offered to him by a member of the butler army. Hilariously and fittingly enough, these women also happened to be twins. Two fetching blonde girls who were part of the Demacian royal dance troupe. Very nice and warmhearted girls, to be sure, but not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. Perfect mental matches for Castor and Pollux, Pantheon thought with a grim smile.

While the party was getting started for the twins, Pantheon just wanted the damn thing to be over with. He wanted to head back to the guards at the gate, reclaim his weapons, and start the long journey back home. The sparkling crystal lamps, loud flowers, glinting clothing and jewelry, everything was just one blindingly bright blur to his eyes beneath their sagging leaden eyelids. The geese babble rang throughout his hurting head, his dulled ears no longer able to pick out the individual notes of the orchestra's music. Maybe he had eaten too much? Most definitely he had eaten too much. But the ribs had just been too damn good to stay away from. He fancied that he was losing all sensation in his extremities as the benign paralysis of food coma started to set in. He idly wondered if maybe this was all one giant Demacian conspiracy where the Lightshields plotted to kill off him and other select champions by overfeeding them.

He would not leave just yet, though. He would bear this burden for the twins, for Pantheon was all too familiar with the role of wingman. And for the thousandth time now, he thought to himself: this wasn't how it was supposed to work, was it? He was the champion. He was the hero! He was the one who could practically pick out any woman of his choosing at this accursed affair. He was the one who should be strolling around with a woman underneath each of his arms while his lackeys picked up the scraps!

So bored was he, even the plentiful eye candy had become a part of the big hazy blur that plagued his aching head. The women were now as faceless as the villainous Solari men he had imagined yesterday. They were all cut from the same mold. Talked about the same superfluous things. Had the same narrow range of indoor hobbies, other than the occasional horse rider (Pantheon had long lost count of how many of these women specialized in "party planning"). They were exceptional only in how utterly unmemorable they were –

Actually, no. He took that back. He had met one exceptional woman so far: Queen Ashe. A very impressive lady, indeed. Too bad she was spoken for, even if her marriage was some sort of arranged union for political purposes. The attraction had been mutual, which stroked his vanity quite a bit, but she made it crystal clear early on that it would remain just that: mutual attraction. Not that he had been pushy or anything. She only threw down her verbal Wall of Jericho after those cheeky twins started bugging the scowling Pantheon to hit on her _while she stood right in front of them_, so she had to say _something_.

A high-pitched laugh of alarming volume pierced the air now, and Pantheon turned his head to spot his second impressive lady of the day. Luxanna Crownguard, absolutely stunning in a virgin white gown that was more reminiscent of Demacian wedding garb than anything else, was doubled over and giggling madly about something which her brother had just said, all the while a snowy and feathered gloved hand clung to his sheepish arm with disturbing possessiveness.

Castor stepped into the periphery of Pantheon's view now, musing out loud as he watched the Crownguards mingle from a distance. "You know what, I think you are right about Luxanna. There is..."

"... definitely something off about her," Pollux asserted as he stepped into view from the other side. The dancer twins had nothing to say other than a shared, timid, and noncommittal giggle. They were afraid to speak anything remotely ill of Demacian nobility, who happened to be both their employers and audience.

Pantheon was not exactly attracted to her, but she did pique his interest. Thus, he began to pay attention to his surroundings again. He roused himself out of his rib-induced lethargy, the world resolving itself of its blurriness and tuneless cacophony as his eyes and ears once again cared about what they saw and heard.

His ears perked forward and tuned into the distant conversation. He could make out maybe a third of the words exchanged between the Crownguard siblings and the "people of importance" they were talking to. One of the men of importance seemed to make a playful comment about Luxanna's choice of clothing, intimating that she looked very much like the blushing bride to Garen's groom. Her face was reddened due to alcohol, not blushing, but she laughed anyway. Laughed with far too much pleasure and delight for such an inappropriate joke. And she now hooked one of her arms with her brother's, securely nestling her elbow between Garen's bulging biceps and forearm.

Garen, at least, looked like he was about to die from embarrassment. A little distance off from the siblings, the parents were conversing with other people of importance, the elder Crownguards totally oblivious or uncaring about their daughter making a minor spectacle of herself... Octavia and Jagen still fresh on his mind, Pantheon then noted with horror that Mother Crownguard was not paying attention to her daughter because she was tossing the occasional flirtatious glance at him. Not at Castor. Not at Pollux. _Him._ Huh. Apparently the woman had a thing for Rakkoran champions.

Since they were directly in the line of fire between Pantheon and the Crownguards, the twins almost immediately noticed her eye-fucking of Pantheon. Yet they did not badger him to go talk to her, even though the older woman was still very much an attractive lady (not quite as well-preserved as Octavia, though). For even the twins were weirded out by the dynamics of the obviously dysfunctional family. In Pantheon's eyes, the Crownguards were surely a symptom of how fucked up Demacian society was, at least in regards to their nobility class (it did not occur to Pantheon that one could easily say the same about Rakkoran society as a whole).

Turning away from the middle aged woman's shameless gaze, Pantheon commented, "They make for a handsome family portrait, at least."

Castor nodded. "Ah, to be a fly on a wall of their household."

Pollux: "A wall of Luxanna's bedroom, even."

Castor: "I wonder if she and her brother share the same bedroom."

This elicited a gasp of shock from the twin dancers and the girls looked to Pantheon, expecting a sharp rebuke from the twins' leader (the girls had a pretty good idea by now of how Pantheon and the twin men usually interacted). Pantheon had no reprimand ready however, because, quite frankly, he did not think Castor was far off from the truth. At the very least, Luxanna clearly had some issues. At the very worst... ehhhh.

He shuddered and turned his mind to other thoughts. He was sincerely amazed how a woman so calm and courageous on the battlefield could also be such a batty incestual loon off it. How did she turn out like this while her brother seemed so well-adjusted? Maybe "seemed" was the operative word here. Or perhaps Demacian families greatly favored their sons over their daughters? Or maybe, while Luxanna seemed like a very bright woman (pun intended), Garen was a total meathead and too stupid and dull to fully comprehend how fucked up his family was (as one can tell, Pantheon did not have a very high opinion of the Might of Demacia).

Then, for the sake of pissing off Pantheon, Pollux opened his mouth to suggest that Pantheon go hit on Luxanna anyway. But Pantheon did not hear what came out of Pollux's mouth because the champion suddenly grew very still, eyes riveted to the far side of the garden, staring with such an intensity that the twins immediately knew what he was looking at.

"Oh ho!" Pollux cast his eyes in the same general direction that Pantheon faced. "What do we have here?"

For the moment, Pantheon let the twin's teasing tone be. For _she_ had entered.

She blew through the powdered and wigged geese like a force of nature, her extravagant ball gown stormy with hues of austere gray and navy blue, bold and militant among the sea of flowery soft pastel dresses. A strapless top revealing much of her sleek and vigorous upper body. A ludicrously large hemispherical skirt bottom, surely supported by a crinoline. Pantheon noted that the costume's bulkiness did not hinder her movement in the slightest bit, for the unwieldy dress did not own her. She owned the dress as she swept through the crowd with her arms perpetually outstretched and the backs of her elbow gloved hands extended to any man who desired to have a taste of her beauty. And the men desired, oh yes they did, as they flocked to her generously offered hands with their lips puckered, hoping to taste her navy blue silk before she was gone (she was moving that damn fast).

She bore all the marks and mannerisms of nobility. Sapphire was her favorite gem apparently, for it was her necklace, earrings, brooch, and other pieces of jewelry which Pantheon could not classify. Her makeup and powder, while nowhere near as heavy as the average noblewoman's, still reeked of luxury. Well-schooled in the art of schmoozing, she returned every inquiry and greeting with an effortless and meaningless bromide, casting her words over her shoulders as she pressed onwards to wherever she was going. The satin locks of her dark brunette hair, shorter and bobbed, danced freely (and yet somehow as one) about her slender neck. Her fair neck especially beckoned to his eyes and dry lips (he wet them with his tongue now). Elegant, upright, and a smooth alabaster. A majestic swan amidst the common geese.

Initially, as she tore through the crowd, Pantheon thought she had an entourage of men tailing her, hand servants to answer her every beck and call. But he then quickly realized that she was alone and that the men she left behind in her wake were merely straggling would-be suitors with forlorn faces unable to hide disappointment. Even the ones who managed to catch her gloves with their lips wore stiff unhappy smiles, for she was clearly not interested in them.

She did all this with the most arrogant and impertinent smile he had ever seen in his entire life. The degree of arrogance was exceptional for a face so young, even considering her lofty status. She looked so young that, despite the very adult manner with which she carried herself, he momentarily wondered if she was even of age of consent... he dismissed the possibility. These men would not have shamelessly hurled themselves at her like so for the opportunity to merely spend the next one or two years fruitlessly kissing and petting. She had to be of age. He even ventured to guess that she must have turned recently, judging from the air of frantic desperation of the men about her. Drones buzzing around the newly spread petals of a tulip bud, competing to be the first to drink her nectar.

The frenetic buzzing about her rose to a fevered pitch as she actually stopped for a moment in the crowd. The surrounding men, hopes lifted by her pause and presence, exchanged hostile looks with each other. Who was she stopping for? They stood still, waiting breathlessly for her next move, a bit like the front row of a packed rock concert: a crowd struggling to surge forward, constantly fighting for shoulder space and elbow room, and yet go nowhere.

She paid no heed to the imperceptibly closing noose of men around herself. Much to their collective dismay, she had paused to simply snap open her fan with a sharp flick of the wrist, and she began to cool herself off with an air of childish grumpiness. The blue silk fan matched her dress's blue and was emblazoned golden with what had to be her family's coat of arms. Pantheon noted that her little display was more out of habit than actual need; she hardly looked taxed, or even flushed, by her recent exertions.

He found it odd that he did not feel even a hint of contempt for her. Like her peers, she was clearly spoiled and pampered from birth, chastised and humbled probably once every blue moon. But unlike her peers, her arrogance did not seem to draw from just her name and wealth; there was an intangible substance backing the presence -

Wait. What was this? She was looking at him now. At _him_.

Her head had been slowly turning on her delicious neck, pale steel blue eyes scanning the loud mosaic of plutocratic festivities. But now, from a good hundred yards away, with what had to be hundreds of people between them, her eyes spotted him. And her body froze much like he had done earlier himself upon spotting her. Like he did again now.

Time froze with them. For an ephemeral moment stretched into eternity, their eyes locked and so much happened. Her smile, plastic and smarmy for the masses, now gave way to a questioning face of surprising anxiety as her keen piercing eyes searched his face for something, anything, now that he gazed upon her. She wanted him to see something special within her. She wanted him to lust for her like he would for no one else. She wanted his company for the day, a ballroom dance for the night. She wanted to talk to him, laugh with him, learn him. Know all his favorites. Uncover all his deepest secrets and darkest desires.

For now, though, all Pantheon had for her was a smile. A small smile of great reservation, to be sure, as an indignant Solari protested within the recesses of his subconscious. No more than the upwards twitch of his lips' corners. The smile happened before he knew it. And once he realized it, it was too late to pull it back.

His little smile was sign enough for her. She visibly shone with delight, her rigid noblewoman's face breaking open into a wide genuine smile which made her even more beautiful many times over. Taking heart in his acknowledgment, she immediately charged forward into the crowd again. To him. The gorgeous smile never left her face and her eyes never left his. The open fan now thrust out front like the prow of a surging battleship as the waves of saddened noblemen dashed themselves in vain against her iron sides.

This was the moment where Pantheon should have turned tail and ran (or jumped, if you will). He should have known that once she drew near him, he would not be able to walk away from her wonderful irresistible smile. But alas, he was young and dumb and fearless. He thought at the time that no harm could come from a simple greeting and a little chat. He thought that, if need be, he could just turn off whatever he felt and walk away. He would learn in due time that there are situations which a man spoken for must avoid at all costs.

In his flawed defense, he was not able to think straight at that moment, mostly because of her smile. The smile was not seductive in nature, yet it excited him immensely, far more than the paltry titillation of Octavia's bared leg. This woman's smile, now having acquired a hint of mischief, promised him many things, all of them intoxicating and addictive. Things he yearned for and missed since Leona's departure. Things he had yet to experience. He was not able to actively name or qualify these things right now. He simply sensed them within her. Felt the instinctive need for them.

One of those rare times where Castor and Pollux had a better grasp of the situation than their comrade. And thus it was they who first realized what exactly was going on here.

Castor started off: "My dear friend, if I am not mistaken, that woman came to this party..."

Pollux continued: "... with the sole intent of meeting you..."

Castor finished: "... you are one lucky son of a bitch."

Their astute observation jarred Pantheon out of his trance. Although his eyes did not leave hers, his mind now thought consciously of matters other than her smile, neck, naked shoulders, and cleavage. He watched her movement as she quickly closed the distance. Effortless, superb coordination. Silent movement that would draw little attention from onlookers if she were not so beautiful. Again, so much unlike the busy bustle of the other noblewomen. Was she a dancer like the twins? Nah. She kept her body in marvelous shape, clearly, but her body was not quite that of a dancer -

Wow. How could he have not seen this before. The powder and makeup, the pointlessly extravagant jewelry, the ridiculously huge dress, they had all blinded him from the obvious truth. Pantheon began to laugh out loud now, freely. His delight was as genuine as the smile she wore, and he watched her smile widen further as her doubtlessly sharp ears picked up the appealing peals of his tenor voice.

"Hmm." Pollux raised an eyebrow. "Are you practicing your laugh for when she arrives?"

"No, no, no, don't be stupid, you motherless fool." Pantheon was feeling very well now. Very well indeed. "I laugh because I have realized something about the woman who approaches."

"What?"

"That woman is a fighter."

It all made sense now. He had subconsciously picked it up when he first saw her more than two hundred yards away, but his mind had not realized it until she started plowing through the crowd with her fan thrust out. Her extended arm, held high and proud in a classic fencing thrust. Her shoulders and back, although the frame still slender and decidedly sensual, were far too developed and muscular to be those of a mere dancer. He had not initially considered her fighter's build to be unusual simply because it was not unusual at all; he saw the same muscles every day on the women of Rakkor. It also explained the lack of contempt he felt when first seeing her and her ridiculous noblewoman's costume. It certainly explained why she could rudely brush aside virtually every man she had encountered so far at this gala, and all these men did was smile helplessly and take it on the chin. For while they were drawn to her, they were also afraid of her. Unlike them, who dealt in coins and banknotes, she was a warrior who dealt in steel.

She was close now, no more than ten yards away. To his annoyance, his heart pounded loudly and his lips were dry yet again. To his delight, her neck and facial features were taut and stern despite her lovely smile. He also saw that her body's muscles were striated and wiry now that they were no longer softened by the illusion of distance, undulating beneath her skin with every move. Yes, she was most definitely a fighter. Sleek like that of a cheetah, as opposed to Leona's tigress.

Many heads were turned and watching now as the most beautiful flower in the entire gardens came to a stop before him. Mrs. Crownguard scowled like a scorned banshee, the unflattering expression revealing the age of her face. Lux sighed in happiness while she clung to Garen's arm, for she liked to think that romance beget romance. The dancer twins also had similar sentiments as they held onto the arms of the Rakkor twins. Although the lull in the crowd was localized, Teemo, the ever vigilant scout, sensed it from faraway and jumped onto the top of a statue of a charging stallion, using his trusty spyglass to see what the heck was going on.

Pantheon saw and heard none of this, for all of his attention was on her. This was what she had wanted, and her smile became both appreciative and gracious as she rewarded him with a slow and graceful curtsy. Dipping as low as her looming dress would allow her. Very much aware that she was giving him a first-class view of her cleavage as she did so.

It was his turn to be appreciative now as he noted that she had a fairly deep bosom for such an exercised woman. Her smile curled higher, knowingly, as he then respectfully (albeit reluctantly) pulled his eyes back up to her awaiting face.

They locked eyes for a moment again. Then, still holding her curtsy, her smile became demure as she bowed her head and averted her gaze. And her luscious rosy pink lips, out of his sight for the moment, finally spoke to him.

"Greetings, Pantheon Markus of Rakkor and esteemed champion of the League. I have watched every one of your matches from afar and with great fervor, for I consider your fighting prowess to be second to none. It is both my honor and pleasure to personally welcome you to our nation of Demacia, and I dearly hope that you will find our hospitality to your liking."

For the past ten minutes, Pantheon had carefully fashioned a greeting for her in the event that they should actually exchange words, but all that went out the proverbial window when he got an eyeful of her chest. His mind had started an emergency recovery process during her long-winded welcome, but the process promptly aborted, mind grinding to a halt, when she lifted her head back up to look at him. For beneath the mask of her formal words, those eyes and lips were promising him things again. Promising him that if he kept her company throughout the day and into the night, her luscious lips might be pleasing more than just his eyes.

Not knowing what else to say, he fell back onto the most simple and obvious things. He greeted her in the traditional Rakkoran manner of how a man greeted a woman: striking his chest with an open hand and curtly bowing from the waist. And he said:

"You have me at a disadvantage, my fair lady. You know my name, but I do not know yours."

An effected gesture of shock as she brought a gloved hand to her O-shaped lips. "Oh, but where are my manners?" Then she smiled and bowed her head once more as she informed him, "Please forgive me for my transgression, Pantheon Markus. My name is Fiora, of the House Laurent. And once again, welcome to our nation of Demacia."

As she remained in her submissive gesture before him, one of the twins (Pantheon was not sure which) clapped an encouraging hand onto his shoulder from behind. And the devil whispered into Pantheon's ear: "Fear not, dear friend! Leona won't kill ya!"

**END OF CHAPTER**

Notes: Super long chapter, I don't know how I spewed it all out, tbh. Introduced a few minor OCs in Castor, Pollux, and Octavia. I felt that if Pantheon was an introvert, many of his friends would definitely be extroverts who are constantly trying to draw him out of his shell. Leona is probably an extrovert given her outspoken attitude. These twins are definitely extroverts lol. As for Octavia, I thought it would be interesting to show some of the potential internal discord within a society like Rakkor.

The main goal for this chapter was to portray the life of a League champion as a celebrity, and I went the flashback route because it would be hard for my current Pantheon to enjoy the perks of fame when he is potentially about to go to war with Noxus. And make no mistake about it, League champs are surely meant to be celebrities since they were being interviewed in Journals of Justice and stuff. For a guy like Pantheon, the closest IRL parallel to him would be a sports athlete who's recently made it big, imo. He's still a very young man in my story's timeline, and obviously a physical specimen. Women would doubtlessly be throwing themselves at him wherever he went.

I just had a lot of fun trying to express what might be going on through such a guy's head. Pantheon is Famous Champion Guy, so he has to do League stuff which is the equivalent of public relation events or press conferences; but he also strikes me as a no-nonsense guy who doesn't really care about that ****. He loves Leona, but long distance relationships suck. They especially suck if she lives nearby but her parents and your parents won't allow you to visit her. Can't blame a guy for at least straying a little here and there, especially if it's some pretty girl with a foreign accent... can you?

Also delved into what politics might be like in a culture like Rakkor. Violent culture, so I imagine they settle domestic disputes with legalized violence. Rakkor politics will be explored later on in the story, definitely...

Had fun writing some other champions into this story, even if some of their parts were brief. I decided to use Fiora as Pantheon's temptation because, well, I really like Fiora's design. Also, as the story unfolds, I believe it really is a role perfect for her. So Fiora gets to be the potentially homewrecking "villain". I also realized that my story so far has yet to have actual conflict, which is a serious problem imo. Noxus is definitely looming on the horizon, but Pantheon or Leona have yet to actually fight them. Fiora's introduction addresses the problem in a way because she threatens Pantheon's and Leona's relationship.

Also, I know Lux x Garen is gross and stuff, but I used it anyway cuz I think it's funny in a trolly kind of way. I think, subconsciously, I am parodying the incest going on in Game of Thrones, lol.


	6. My Dear Connosaur

_Still One Year Ago_

"... my name is Fiora, of the House Laurent. And once again, welcome to our nation of Demacia."

Now that she had finally given her name, Fiora Laurent raised both her head and body from her deep curtsy, the boldness of her shining eyes betraying the carefully demure smile on her lips. Her sinuous body remained noblewoman proper, yet a raw undercurrent of desire throbbed and surged from within her strapless bustier. Seemingly one suggestive whisper and one empty room away from shedding all pretense and locking her body with his in violent passionate throes.

Like she had done with all the other men she blew by earlier, she offered the back of her elbow-gloved left hand to him. Like he had done with all the other noblewomen he endured earlier, he reverently bowed at the waist like a gentleman and delicately drew in her offered hand with his thumb and forefinger so that he may gently touch his lips against what she offered. Except the Rakkor didn't do gentle. Thus his lips pressed rather forcefully against the refreshing vigor of her wrist (as opposed to the lifeless limpness of the other women). The pressure of him against her elicited a muted feminine inhale of repressed excitement from somewhere above his bowed head. Unbeknownst to him, notions of naughtiness surfaced within her smile.

He observed that she had _huge_ hands for a woman. Bigger than even Leona's, even though Fiora was almost half a head shorter. Not just large for a woman, now that he thought about it. She had huge hands, period. Disproportionately large especially when considering how slender she was. He had no doubt these large hands of hers were a great asset when it came to manipulating whatever form of blade or weapon she trained with (his initial guess was a saber of sorts, judging from her fencer's pose with her fan earlier).

Still bowed before her as his lips grazed along the velvet of her wrist, his eyes took on their own air of mischief as they rotated up to her face and her pursed feline smile. From this lower point of view, her face happened to be neatly nestled within the valley of her chest's imposing hills. This made for a very titillating picture, indeed.

He decided that he would deal with these half-clad mounds of temptation later, oh yes he would. But for now, he pressed onwards to more important matters as he murmured almost drunkenly into her glove: "Correct me if I am wrong, Lady Fiora, but I do not think this hand has ever wielded darning needle or weaving shuttle, yes?"

A momentary burst of childish delight flashed across her face as she realized that he already had her pegged as a fighter. Then her fine features quickly gathered themselves as best they could. Her blue silk fan made an appearance once more to help conceal her unladylike smile, but it could not hide the pleasure in her voice as she played innocent for now.

"You insolent cur, how _dare_ you ask me such a ludicrous question? Do you mock my tapestry-weaving skills, hmm?" To emphasize the "hmm", her fan's fluttering momentarily increased to the blur of hummingbird wings.

She was, of course, referring to the national past time of the typical Demacian noblewoman: tapestry weaving. And her playful outrage tickled Pantheon's funny bone to no end, as he tried so hard to keep a straight face.

"Forgive me for my insolence, but you must understand my predicament." He reluctantly decided it was time to finally stop muzzling her wrist and he straightened upwards now, letting the gloved hand return to its owner. "Literally every woman here has told me that she is supremely talented with the shuttle and loom, and I now find myself wondering if Demacian baby girls shake little shuttles rather than baby rattles from within their cribs."

The fan stilled while the tinkle of Fiora's laughter drifted around its edges. "We Demacians consider ourselves to be far more artistic and cultured than those accursed Noxians," she explained. "Thus we strive to produce all sorts of artistic pieces to assert our superiority in all things aesthetic."

"Then Demacian nobility considers a tapestry to be the pinnacle of all art forms?"

"Perhaps not the pinnacle, but it is an art form almost exclusive to the noble class, yes. A tapestry of superior quality requires considerable time for the weaving and considerable money for the silk, and since Demacian noblewomen generally have a surplus of both, they are almost duty-bound to spend an hour or two a day in front of a loom, whether they actually have any real talent or not. And even if a noblewoman's tapestry is not impressive in terms of imagery or imagination, at the very least it is always impressive in size and quality of material."

"I see... you have yet to answer my question, however, Lady Fiora of Laurent."

"Oh yes, the needle and shuttle. Hmm." She raised an eyebrow. "I picked up a darning needle once when I was seven years of age."

"So you prefer knitting to weaving?"

"I used the needle to kill a garter snake who strayed into my private veranda."

"Ah." A crooked grin on his part. "Difficult to knit a scarf or sweater out of a dead snake, methinks."

Her eyes laughed. "Yes. Very."

"I then take it you have not done a single stitch in your entire life."

"I confess I have not. I was never much into those sort of things as a child." The fan hid her mouth once again. "Disappointed?"

"Exceedingly disappointed." Pantheon, unfortunately, did not have a fan to hide his irrepressible smile. "I would have you know that I happen to be a, uh, what do you call it... a connosaur of fine tapestries?"

She smoothly corrected his skewed pronunciation: "Connoisseur."

He smoothly replied without missing a beat, "Exactly. I am a connoisseur of tapestries." He had learned this word just an hour ago while pretending to listen to a pair of noblewomen babbling about the topsoil of flower beds.

The fan lowered itself for now as she purred in amusement through that feline smile of hers. "A connoisseur of tapestries, you say? You must have had a marvelous time mingling with the crowd then, since there are _so_ many like-minded women here who share your passion and enthusiasm."

"Yes, those women and I have much in common... it is as if we are all cut from the same cloth, even."

Her fan was back up and flickering in amusement at his choice of cliché. "My knowledge of tapestries surely pales in comparison to yours, oh mighty Pantheon. However, due to my numerous bouts of small talk with other women of high society, I myself have come to know quite a bit about the craft... so, I am just dying to know, esteemed connoisseur of tapestries, which of the Ionian silks do you prefer for warp threading?"

Needless to say, he had no clue what warp threads were. He barely even knew what a loom looked like; the first time he'd seen one, he'd mistaken it for some sort of harp. And there was more than one type of silk? For what reason?

He had a feeling that the end of their little game was nigh. But still, this game was far more entertaining than anything else he had done for the day; so he tried to buy as much time as possible. "Which Ionian silk is my favorite, eh?" A scratch of the back of his head. "I, uh... hmm... I like the soft one."

An aborted whinnying snort of a laugh escaped from behind her madly fluttering fan. "The soft one, you say?"

"Yes," he said with incredible conviction that could fool only the most gullible. "The soft one."

Fiora was hardly one of the most gullible. "Mmm, yes, I have heard of this 'soft silk'... it is quite popular, from what I understand..."

"Are we done with this charade yet?"

With wide eyes and mouth, she gasped in shock. "Are you saying you are not a maven of all things tapestry, oh mighty champion of Rakkor?"

"Well... perhaps I overstated my familiarity with tapestries..." He drifted off into pensiveness, for his eyes were now drawn to the fleshy swell of her cleavage's left bosom. Not just for the most obvious reason, mind you, but because he also spied a somewhat familiar shape pinned to the bustier which cradled said bosom: the shape of her extravagant sapphire brooch. The brooch was truly a work of indulgence, perhaps the most luxurious piece of jewelry in the entire League gala. A dizzying spiral galaxy of twinkling royal blue gems large and small. Elaborately cut and arranged into the form of a blooming flower, set inside a leafy bed of brilliant gold. Looked almost like a rose, except this flower's petals were far sharper at the edges.

He knew the name of that flower. And his pensive lips curled into a knowing grin as he then informed her, "Perhaps I am not an authority of tapestries, my fair lady. However, I _am_ something of a botany enthusiast."

"Oh, it's botany now, is it?" Her eyes laughed again, but she picked up a grain of truth in his latest words. And the eyes now burned with a knowing curiosity as she subtly turned herself so that her brooch (and left bosom) were practically thrust into his personal space. "Of all the sciences, arts, and trades in this vast world, why would you bring up botany?"

"Your brooch," he informed her, almost accidentally saying the word bosom instead of brooch due to the sudden proximity of her chest. "I know the name of the flower it is shaped after."

"Mmm." She wore the smile of a woman who had a little precious secret all to herself. "Whatever could this flower be, my dear Pantheon?"

"The name of this flower is the fiora, of course. A beautiful yet hardy flowering plant which can be found only within the rocky mountain ranges of Demacia."

At his correct answer, her breath caught somewhere inside her throat, and one of her hands involuntarily stole up to caress the most forward tip of her sapphire flower. "How did you come to know this?" She had more than an inkling that he would get the answer right, but her face heightened into surprised ecstasy nonetheless. "Few people outside of Demacia know of the fiora blossom, it is not a common flower by any means!"

"I learned about the fiora plant from a survival handbook," he revealed. "The fiora's leaves, stem, and root are all edible." He went no further, deciding that it would be inappropriate to tell her that this "survival handbook" was actually a military textbook, and that the Rakkorans stayed well-informed on the indigenous plant life of other major nations in case they waged war on their territories.

But she wanted to know more, of course. A woman like her was insatiable. Her face turned naughty and she started to minutely rotate back and forth at the waist, demanding that he pay more attention to her naked shoulders. "Does this handbook say anything about the taste of a fiora, perhaps?"

"I have yet to taste a fiora." In contrast to her shifting and turning, he was ramrod straight and motionless, having retained this posture for the past five minutes. With his helmet tucked snugly underneath an arm. The side effects of being a man of military discipline. "But the handbook told me that its flavor is mildly bittersweet."

"Bittersweet?" She pondered about the implications of such a word, then stilled her rotating self with a rare smile of self-deprecation. "Well, I suppose that is an apt description."

"Does this flower have any significance to your family or its history?"

"It was my mother's favorite blossom." Her smile died a little now. "She was an herbalist who traveled the world all over, and she always admired how such a beautiful flower could thrive in such a harsh environment."

"If I may say so myself, it is a fitting name. A rare flower for a rare woman."

"Oh hush!" The fan smacked him lightly on the wrist. "Such heavy handed flattery will get you nowhere, oh mighty champion of tapestries."

A transparent lie, of course, for she fairly glowed before him, and he decided that he should strike while the iron was still hot as he extended the crook of his elbow to her. "My sincerest apologies, Lady Fiora. Shall I make it up to you by escorting you around the gardens for the rest of the day?"

She both smirked and beamed. "Well, I suppose – oh, what's this?" She paused to tilt her head to the side and peer around at someone behind him. "Who is this young woman who approaches you, my dear champion? Is she your girlfriend, perhaps?"

There was only one thing in the world that instilled fear in the heart of Pantheon. And it was the prospect of a glaring Leona stomping up to him, right here and right now, as her eyes bored burning smoking holes into the back of his head.

And for a moment, the guilty-faced Pantheon actually moved to put his helmet back onto his head in preparation for incoming smashes of Solari broadsword.

Then a hand grabbed Pantheon by one of his pteruges's leather straps and politely tugged on it to get his attention. And judging by the force of the tugging, this hand did not belong to a tall Amazonian woman ready to knock his block off. It was the tiny hand of a child, accompanied by the tiny voice of a little girl. So this was his "girlfriend", eh? Curse that wickedly smiling Fiora! Curse her!

The little girl's voice was shy and terrified, yet bravely pressed ahead now that she had him by his clothing. "Mr. Pantheon? May I... may I please ask you a question?"

He turned around to see a precious little blonde girl who could be no older than seven or eight, dressed in pretty pink with a crown of freshly plucked flowers resting on her head like that of a princess. And for all he knew, she might just be an actual princess, considering the staggering number of high royalty currently meandering about these gardens. He did not care if she was a princess, however, or if she were even the little sister of Prince Jarvan himself. All he wanted was to be left alone with this intoxicating woman named Fiora so that she could lash away at him some more with her sharp and sarcastic tongue.

It didn't help that he already knew what the little girl was about to ask him. It would always be this way wherever he went, he supposed. Whether it be the children of Rakkor, or the children here, the little imps would always ask the same question of him for as long as he breathed. Of this, he was certain. However, for the sake of humoring Lady Fiora, who had taken a step back so that he could converse with his "girlfriend" in private, he entertained the little girl's question.

He sighed. "What do you wish to ask me, little one?"

The little girl's face went brilliant in delight at his acknowledgment of her diminutive presence, and she immediately asked with emboldened eagerness: "Can you jump for me please please please please?"

As if on cue, a storm of other children, lying in wait as they hid behind the legs of their parents, suddenly sprung upon the hapless champion from all directions, like a pack of wolves closing in on a diseased and elderly moose with a helmet tucked under its foreleg. Their howling words were pretty much indistinguishable from one another, but there was one word that clearly resonated above the hubbub.

Jump!

Fucking kids. They really were all the same.

Barely able to withstand the horde of grubby little hands tugging on his clothing, Pantheon looked to Fiora for help, his eyes begging her to call off these hounds in dresses and knickers. But all the cat woman did was maliciously smile and gesture to the sky with her eyes and arched eyebrows, as she mouthed the word "jump".

_Curse her._

There was now an excited buzz in the air above the gala, and it was growing in volume and spreading in breadth for even the nearby adults were getting into it. While the people of Rakkor had gotten quite used to Pantheon hopping all over the place like an armored jumping bean, his leaping feats were still considered to be quite the spectacle in all other parts of Runeterra. And now the crowd realized that they had a chance to witness in person what they had only seen before on televised matches of the League: Pantheon's famous leap. The stuff of legends. A jump of mind-blowing altitude which a famous news publication had generously taken the initiative to name for him: the Grand Skyfall.

Personally, Pantheon never understood why people bothered to name such things. He jumped all the time back home, and it was not that big of a deal. Ok, it was actually kind of a big deal since he was the only one in all of Runeterra who could jump that high and far. But still. Bah. Whatever. He just hated it whenever people (Leona) nagged or pushed him (Leona) to do something (_Leona_).

Like how it was with Leona, however, his defensive shell was already wearing thin. The rising uproar of cheers and adulation beat down on his caped shoulders. Grown adult women were cheering in singsong and clapping their gloved hands together in time, as if they expected him to spring forward into the rapidly growing clearing and perform a frantic bolshevik dance. The adult men, many of them well on their way to the land of alcohol-induced blackouts, were laughing, shouting, and unsteadily pumping their fists into the air. The children were absolutely beside themselves as they sensed their prey weakening before them, and they ran laps around him screaming their heads off. The eccentric yordle mage Lulu was running around alongside the kids as if she were one of them. Laughter of seemingly innocuous insanity blared from her wide open mouth, and with two little fists, she waved a large wooden ladle covered with mashed potatoes (leaving a hint as to exactly which table spread she had swiped the ladle from) like how an intrepid flag-bearer waves her army's colors while leading her comrades into battle.

The stage was set. He stood alone and abandoned in a sudden clearing, for everyone had backed off to give him a wide berth. The closest adult was an enthusiastically clapping Fiora at maybe twenty yards away. The closest child was all of them, as they and a purple yordle still ran screaming laps around him in a tight little circle, as one giant bunch. The clapping and cheering were bordering on deafening. Even the goddamn orchestra was getting into it now, halfway across the endless gardens with their stuffy conductor sporting his first smile of the day, their worldly instruments belting out a slowly escalating melody that was immensely popular at Demacian sporting events.

As the melody built up to a mighty crescendo, the crowd became borderline boisterous. They would not be denied. These people of alleged importance and stature, they all came to this League of Legends event hoping for moments like these. For deep down, these people knew they lacked substance, and that they were not great like they made themselves out to be. They all pined for a taste of what true greatness was and wished to wallow in it like how a pig revels in mud. For greatness is the stuff which heroes are made of, and it is why heroes are worshipped.

And now, thank their lucky stars, they had a chance to witness the greatness of such a hero.

In the end, though, it was not the cheering, clapping, or music which swayed his mind. It was most certainly not because of these damned children raising bedlam all about him. No, his mind was swayed because, while he tiredly stared off into the distance and started to shake his feet out in belabored preparation for some half-arsed jump, his eyes latched onto something far off in the distance. Something which would guarantee that this intriguing Fiora of Laurent stayed by his side for the day and the night. And possibly, if he got drunk and careless enough, maybe into the wee hours of the morn.

A genuine smile on his face now as his feet and legs started to stretch and shake themselves out in earnest. At his first sign of positive body language, the crowd and orchestra let loose a triumphant chorus in unison. Even Fiora was affected by this contagion of elation, raising her arms in victory alongside her countrymen and women as Pantheon gruffly waved away the children to safety. The little screaming maggots dispersed at his wordless command, flocking back to the arms of their parents. Lulu, for her part, jumped onto the feathered back of the immortally patient Anivia and continued her raucous cheering from there.

In typical taciturn Pantheon fashion, he didn't bother to announce anything beforehand. Didn't tell them where he was going to jump and why. What was the point. They, and she, would all see in good time.

Once the children were all clear, he slid on his helmet (safety first). Crouched low with his head bowed, mind visualizing the area where he was going to land. And he started to gather his chakra.

* * *

Chakra. The inner force which all warriors drew strength from. Not to be confused with the magical elements and energies which mages wielded, although chakra was most certainly magical in nature. While the mainland referred to this inner force as chakra, the Ionians called it ki. Bilgewater called it something along the lines of "harr darrr darrr that magic stuffin' in yer bones!"

In laymen's terms, one could summarize chakra as being the magical equivalent of adrenalin. But chakra was far more than just mere adrenalin, because while adrenalin could push the body's muscles to their absolute limits, chakra could push the body to do much much more. Because of chakra, Pantheon could clear miles with a single jump. Because of chakra, a certain Demacian prince could fight toe to toe with a dragon. A yordle named Poppy could crush foes twenty times her size with her hammer. Chakra was the great equalizer.

Like all other things related to physical endeavors, chakra was something one could exercise and improve. And everyone had chakra in varying amounts. Most could barely use it beyond what simple adrenalin could do. Only a few blessed individuals had immense pools of chakra to draw from, and even fewer gained mastery of it after years of training. These final few were the ones who could slay a mighty dragon with a simple blade.

Such masters of chakra could feel it emanating from the bodies of others during use, especially from those who possessed great quantities of this mysterious force. It was not something one could measure or quantify in their mind; it was not as if one had some sort of scouter gadget over their eyes which could measure an opponent's power level. There was certainly no hair turning fiery golden, or a body bathed in a shroud of crackling energy. Unlike mages, there were no lightshows or thunderstorms when a warrior used his chakra (which suited the understated Pantheon just fine). All one could feel was the aura of chakra and its color.

Yes, chakra somehow had color. Although it is pretty much impossible to explain to someone not proficient in the ways of chakra how one can feel color. Many speculated that chakra somehow tapped into a sixth sense of sorts, a sense yet to be fully discovered and explained. It should also be noted that the concept of feeling color is not to be confused with the falsity perpetuated by Lulu that one could taste color.

* * *

While the overwhelming majority of the festive crowd had no clue what Pantheon was actually doing while he crouched before them, Fiora's clapping hands acquired a distinctly token nature about them and her smile regained its most common sheen, that of plastic. Her long narrow eyes, already glued to her man for the day, now gleamed with an unearthly intensity.

His chakra was the scarlet red of freshly spilled blood. As she had expected. Red was the most common color among those who thirsted first and foremost for violence. She could not see it, of course, but she fancied that she could feel his chakra billowing out from his body like freeborn gales of winds. Tendrils snarling like rabid wolves in the thrill of the hunt, whipping their slavering jaws from side to side to stoke fear in their fleeing prey.

This was the true nature of the man crouched before her, all semblance of civility stripped away from his massive caped back. He had not been put on this earth to jest about tapestries and darning needles. His purpose in life was not to learn the correct pronunciation of connoisseur. He was born to spill blood and gray matter. To squeeze life out of broken necks. To rip limbs free from the screaming bodies of the defeated. Many said that while women were made to bring life to this world, men were made to end life. Surely they said this with men like Pantheon on their mind.

This was the Pantheon she had wanted all along.

As her sixth sense greedily took in the glorious feel before her, a flushed Fiora found her body stiffening in private places and, with an impromptu squeak, she immediately raised her fan to her chest. Just in case she had not worn enough layers down there. She thought she had, but right now she was so aroused, the heady Fiora could not be sure of herself. Only now was she truly in thrall to him. His handsome face, ridiculously carved body, and clumsy words made for wonderful foreplay, but handsome men and cute banter were a dime a dozen. But this... _now_ he would show why he was worthy of her.

His running start consisted of three long steps, as she expected. Just like all his other jumps in the League matches she had scrutinized. His first step seemed normal enough. The second one hinted of things to come with an audible heavy thump and deep imprint. The third one was forever etched in Fiora's mind, the perfect snapshot of a man frozen in the moment before motion. Lowered body, bowed head, and coiled legs, balanced arms held at a roughly horizontal plane. A man about to launch himself into orbit.

The light summer air grew numbingly heavy. A pressure weighed onerously on her naked shoulders. The grassy earth beneath his launch foot began to crater and give way, as the wet sound of ripping dirt and tearing roots filled her ears.

Then, in a flash too fast for her eyes to follow, he was gone. Just like that. For a moment, the only thing left behind was the sharp sound of his cape ripping in the wind. The air and her shoulders regained their lightness -

A giant sonic boom nearly shattered her ear drums, its rippling waves flattening everyone in the first row except for Fiora. The children screamed in delight and terror as they clapped their hands over their ears. Bewildered women had no idea where he went and barely an idea of what just happened. Too slow or wasted to be of assistance to the confused women, the men simply clapped each other on the back and congratulated themselves for being drunk and awesome enough to witness Pantheon's leap.

Fiora had expected him to jump onto the royal church, the tallest building of Demacia's capital city, and perform some amazing feat of balance on its steeple. After all, at the end of his League matches, he was fond of jumping onto the peak of an enemy's nexus and doing some sort of mocking tip-toe ballerina dance before his fallen opponents (the cocky Pantheon, he of the perfect record so far, was not exactly the most gracious of winners). But instead, the Rakkoran champion jumped farther. Much farther. His body hurtled clear out of the city, past its tall granite walls and stationed soldiers, and out of Fiora's sight in under two seconds. The fleck of a champion disappearing into what few ragged clouds floated above.

After a moment of stunned silence, everyone began to clamor at once. People cautiously gathered around the cratered earth to poke at it with their feet as they loudly marveled to one another. Children were climbing onto nearby chairs and tables and jumping off the outdoor furniture in ill-fated attempts to emulate their hero. The only ones who remained calm were Fiora and the champions of the League, for they were intimately familiar with amazing feats.

The most common question was this: "Where did he go?" And the only one who could answer was Queen Ashe, she of the archer's eyes. Her pale ice blue eyes had not lost track of Pantheon from the moment his feet left the ground, and she now held a hand to her brow as she peered off into the interminable distance...

"He has landed on the slopes of a smallish mountain." Ashe's voice was tinged with surprise. "And he walks about on the rocky surface, head turning this way and that as if he is... searching for something?"

A gasp sounded from Fiora's direction, and more than a few heads turned to see her gloved hands clap over her wide open mouth in a belated attempt to hush herself.

_Oh no, he didn't!_, she thought to herself. _Is he really looking for... he must be! Oh, what a devil of a man he is! Truly truly a devil!_

Now that he had a bearing to turn his eyes towards, the vigilant scout Teemo scampered over to Ashe's side with his spyglass extended and held ready inside his furry paws. He squinted with one eye while he peered with the other, tongue lolling out as he patiently swept the horizon for the profile of a helmeted man in ceremonial bronze...

"I see him!" Teemo momentously squeaked as if he were the one to first discover Pantheon, causing Ashe's eyes to roll at the annoying yordle. "He has come to a stop and he is bending down to pick up something..."

Ashe brusquely interrupted him: "He is plucking a flower."

Even more heads turned to Fiora, for most were aware that she and Pantheon had been hiding in a corner and giggling between themselves for the past ten minutes or so. The noblewoman tried her best to remain nonchalant as her fan hid much of her face, but too many things gave her away. The biggest tip off was her entire body going up and down, for she was constantly and unconsciously lifting herself on the balls of her feet beneath her huge skirt and crinoline. From what little could be seen of her face and ears, her skin was flushed a deep red in delightful embarrassment. And her posture was unmistakably that of a woman patiently waiting for the return of her man. Her breath and body poised in anticipation so that, once he returned to her, she may wrap her arm around his, take pleasure and comfort in his company, and feel complete.

Teemo's impudent smile vanished. "Uh oh. I think he's going to jump back now."

Ashe nodded in agreement as she quickly backed off. And everyone started to scatter, as it finally dawned upon them that maybe it had not been the wisest of ideas to encourage Pantheon to jump. Because him jumping away meant that he would inevitably have to jump back. And, if he was going to jump back, he would have to land somewhere.

And everyone was fully aware what happened when Pantheon landed from his Grand Skyfall. Except for the children, who were too young to understand the danger they were in. Especially the champions, who galvanized into action to make sure they were in the clear. Only Lulu was not rattled by the prospect of Pantheon's return, for she was now fast asleep on the back of the immortally patient Anivia, the avian head of the cryophoenix having taken on a few spatters of mashed potatoes and a touch of human surliness.

As it were, though, there had been no need for alarm. For while Pantheon was certainly capable of mind-boggling destruction with his jump, he was also capable of reining it in and landing as softly as one could from such perilous heights. That was not to say his return was gentle, of course. It happened with very little warning after Teemo's initial alert. The first sign had been the sound of a faraway sonic boom. A moment later, a flea-sized dot appeared in the sky, accompanied by a faint manly yell of concern:

_"Look out below!"_

Then he was upon them. His feet slammed into the ground with a beautiful violence that made Fiora outright hard, and her eager eyes managed to catch a glimpse of the expected blue blossom clutched none-too-gently inside his hand before he disappeared in an explosive cloud of atomized dirt and shredded grass. The destruction was shockingly limited. The only damage done was the crater in the ground, which now increased tenfold in diameter, and the number of expensive hats which went sailing off across the gardens.

The Rakkoran marched out of the cloud without further ado, his ceremonial armor now a total mess of fresh dirt, rocky dust, and grass stains. No signs of visible exertion, other than a lone dribble of sweat running down the left side of his face. He was breathing regularly, slower than the breath of the excited Fiora. The children celebrated his successful descent from orbit like a pint-sized NASA crew.

Make no mistake about it, though. Having had his head skim the clouds and his feet crush the earth, this was easily the most alive Pantheon had felt in days. His eyes, wider than normal, shone with the thrill of a successful hunt (if one could count the plucking of a fiora blossom as a successful hunt) and the thrill of being one with the eagles. The rare air up there offered the comfort of home more than anything else; now that he was back at sea level, the jump reminded him of the elevations which the Rakkorans chose to live at on Mount Targon.

His biggest thrill was the radiant face of Fiora Laurent, however, as her long body closed the gap between him and her with swift urgent steps. She tried her best to downplay it all, but not really, because she had tucked her fan away somewhere in the folds of her dress. Pink mouth pursing and wriggling in a struggle to disguise her exuberant smile. Sharp chin thrust outright in a token show of resistance to his courtship. But her adoring fierce blue eyes were locked with his own every step of the way, and they no longer promised things. They now guaranteed things. Things which caused chills to run down the spine of his body while heated lust dominated the rest. He was very glad that the leather armored straps of his ceremonial pteruges were heavy and not prone to stirring, because his body was out of control down there at the moment.

As she came to a stop before him, her fine head and graceful neck raised upwards to the towering man of Rakkor, he stuck out the flower to her without much in the way of pomp and circumstance.

"I ran into the darnedest thing while I was out there," he said.

"Mmm." Without a discernible word, she took the offering from him as if it were her right, and not a privilege, for a man to travel miles in seconds in search of her favorite flower. With exquisite care, she pinned the still breathing and alive blossom next to its sapphire sister. Then, in an act which spoke more than anything she could have said, she extracted a blue silk handkerchief from gods knew where, and she began to wipe clean the dirt and stains from his armor with the air of a fussy mother hen.

"You have made an utter mess of yourself," the mother hen finally clucked in disapproval. "Whatever shall I do with you, oh dear champion of Rakkor?"

"My apologies. I will make sure to land in a giant vat of soap and water the next time I jump."

She glowed before him, the rays of the late afternoon light revealing the startling youth of her face and angelic skin. Done with the stains, the nimble gloved fingers now straightened out his shoulder pads and collar.

With the air of a professor in love: "I should have you know that, in Demacia, it is customary for the man to give a bouquet of flowers to the woman on a first date."

Pantheon scrunched his face at this bit of information. "A bouquet? What's wrong with one flower?"

"The gift of one flower is a sign that a couple has reached a certain degree of intimacy. A degree of intimacy considered most inappropriate for a first date."

He pouted like a sullen boy. "Are you saying there is no chance for intimacy tonight?"

Her left brow arched. Her smile turned coy. "I did not say that."

"Hmm." He brushed aside her hands and turned back to the mountain range in the horizon. "If it would make you feel more comfortable, perhaps I should go back and collect more flowers - "

"Oh no you don't, you musclebound smart arse." The return of the feline smile as she reached out with a hand to reel in his nearest arm. "You are not getting away from me that easily."

"Fine, then." A sigh of resignation as he allowed her to slip a slender arm through his beefcake elbow. "I suppose I will have to bear your company for now."

"My apologies. I am well aware that I can be quite the handful." Taking advantage of their linked arms, she drew him closer until his cuirass brushed against her bodice. "Come, my dear connosaur. Let us make our rounds, for I wish to parade you about in front of the other ladies, and I can not wait to see their envious faces turn as green as these gardens."

While Pantheon and Fiora walked off arm in arm (and indeed, several nearby young women were already visibly flustered with jealousy and dashed hopes), the Rakkor twins, Castor and Pollux, stood off to the side like a pair of old forgotten toys.

Pollux, the self-proclaimed handsomer twin: "My dear brother, I do believe he is not going to introduce us to her!"

Castor, in a rare moment of self-awareness as he ran his fingers through his non-existent beard (he had always fancied himself to be the smarter twin). "Hmmm. It does seem that way... but then again, perhaps it is for the best."

_**END OF CHAPTER**_

DUN DUN DUN. Fiora has her claws firmly lodged into Pantheon! Or is it vice versa? Or it both? Poor Leona!

Anyway. To change things up, I made a conscious effort to include more dialogue in this chapter (I haven't counted, but I am under the impression this story has very few lines of dialogue considering how long it is). Pantheon may be taciturn, but he should not be THAT taciturn. Also tried to make Pantheon "turn on da charm", so to speak, because he should have a certain degree of charisma for this (love) story to work. Leona would not fall in love with (and Fiora would not be strongly attracted to) some dullard who grunts monosyllabic while chucking spears all day. Well, maybe they would fall in love with such a man. But you know what I mean.

I totally made up the fiora flower plant. Just seemed like the idea would fit. And Fiora does seem like the kind of egotistical woman who would wear herself as a brooch. I really enjoy writing about Fiora. Snooty arrogant *****es are always more fun to describe than bland nice girls; they make things way more interesting, imo. I don't know if tapestry weaving itself is a necessarily expensive hobby, but high quality silk is expensive AFAIK, so I framed it as an elite class hobby in this story.

I added the tidbit about Fiora's hand size because I remember a Conan O'Brien's show with Kate Beckinsale as the main guest (she of the awful yet entertaining Underworld movies), and she brought up the fact that she had HUGE hands despite being a relatively diminutive woman (they were almost as big as Conan's, who stands around 6'4). They speculated that her hand size helps make her gun play and pistol wielding more convincing, and I think there is some truth to that. So I used that because Kate Beckinsale vaguely reminds me of Fiora in terms of appearance.


	7. The Pawn and the Queen

_Still One Year Ago_

"Come, my dear connosaur. Let us make our rounds, for I wish to parade you about in front of the other ladies, and I can not wait to see their envious faces turn as green as these gardens."

Fiora had not been kidding around when she said she wanted to show off her statuesque man trophy. For the remainder of the fading late afternoon and throughout the Lightshields' royal gardens, she took him to all four corners of the aristocratic world, the ringing of her well-honed socialite's laugh as ubiquitous as lavish floral arrangements and swishing silver wine goblets. She flitted from one circle to another with the pit-stop efficiency of a honey bee zipping from flower to flower, determined to cover as much ground possible so long as daylight permitted. Only this queen bee did not feed off nectar; she fed off the bitter jealousy and wanton longing that exuded from the other noblewomen as she shamelessly fawned over her very own stud muffin of a champion.

With an assumed familiarity, she toted him along as if he had been her ball and chain for a decade instead of an hour. As if they were already at that later stage of their lives where they made scheduled love on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Yet, while she droned on and on about the most useless things next to his slack-jawed and glassy-eyed self, her hands visibly sampled and squeezed his giant unyielding forearm with the hunger of a newlywed. In front of a few particularly venomous women, Fiora twisted the knife even further by intertwining her satin gloved fingers with his heavily callused counterparts. For these women, she actually included him in the conversation, occasionally turning with a heavenly smile and asking him a leading question which could only be answered by a word or two of rote endearment. These particular encounters were fraught with big nodding smiles, synchronized laughter, and the pernicious stink of bad blood. He wondered if the bad blood stemmed from Fiora, the fighter, daring to be different from the typical mansion-maker of a noblewoman. After reflecting on her personality, however, he guessed that it had more to do with how Fiora looked down at everyone from the tip of her perfect nose.

Pantheon spent a great deal of the late afternoon pondering these sort of things, all the while zoning out and ignoring the noblepeople's gabbing. He absolutely could not stand listening to these people for extended periods of time; every time he tuned into the conversation, a small part of his soul would promptly wither and die from the inanity of it all. The actual words themselves were relatively harmless. What drove him utterly crazy was the insincerity. The overly broad and equine smiles of camaraderie, uniform in how they bared every single one of their perfect pearly whites. The jolly (supercilious) laughter whenever discussing (mocking) a person or party not present among the immediate group. The overly dramatized sadness and falsetto whimpers of sympathy whenever informed of something tragic. It was all just one giant infuriating sham, and it made Pantheon want to grab the nearest man and start pounding his face in, just to see if the man would laugh bubbly blood through missing teeth and compliment the Rakkoram champion on his impeccable punching form. According to Fiora, the gala's evening ball was to be an early celebration of the approaching night of Harrowing, and everyone was expected to wear a mask of some sorts; if it were up to him, the majority of these accursed noblemen and women would be allowed to walk into the ballroom as is.

Despite all this, he did not begrudge Fiora for dragging him through this heavily perfumed sludge of humanity. Yes, he was single-minded, but not entirely narrow-minded. And he understood that this was the society she had been raised in from birth, and that this was, by and large, the only life the young woman had known for her (hopefully eighteen) years (Octavia had told him it was rude to ask a woman her age). That she had even bothered to trade in her silver spoon for a steel blade was a small miracle in itself, judging from the plethora of pampered women strewn about these parts. But still, he had to wonder... did she really need to know so damn much about things so damn pointless?! The appropriate amount of tannin in red wines? The latest fashions in the embroidery of _doilies_? And, especially, who was getting married to who?! When did she ever find the time to train, to spar, to hone her skill and techniques?! Did she never sleep, perhaps? Or were the days here in Demacia somehow a few hours longer than everywhere else, perhaps the result of machinations by the famous time wizard Zilean?

In a mildly hypocritical manner, however, he did enjoy her gratuitous and, at times, fraudulent displays of their alleged intimacy. After all, such moments usually involved her slender hands deftly squeezing various parts of his body (definitely not an unpleasant sensation). More importantly, though, he found himself taking a similarly perverse pleasure in how most of the other men, deathly afraid of drawing Pantheon's ire, lusted for the young lady of Laurent in a most careful and prudent manner. For today and tonight, the only man with her would be him, and no one else. And this pleased him. The alpha dog relished having the first pick of the females by his side while these weaklings skulked about within the periphery of his vision, the yellow-bellied schemers struggling to find an angle from which to approach her while simultaneously enticing him away. When he made it a point to look blandly yet directly at them, the vast majority of the weaklings scattered with their tails between their legs. He had no doubt that this instinctive need to establish his male (and Rakkoran) dominance was one of the major reasons as to why he was drawn to her in the first place.

A handful of foolish Demacian men, when they thought he was not looking, dared to fling glances of open resentment at Pantheon; they were clearly irate that this primitive brute of a champion, a savage from a mountainous land of "little importance", could so easily swoop into their heralded country and make off with one of their most beautiful jewels. These men were an even more welcome diversion than the skulkers, never failing to snap Pantheon out of his doldrums. For them, Pantheon made a concerted effort to palpably turn and stare at their furtive faces for the entirety of a Fiora pit-stop, his chillingly bored eyes practically begging for them to openly defy his dominance. Please. Just give him a reason. Any reason.

But alas, none of them dared to give him a reason. For the infamous reputation of previous Rakkor champions preceded Pantheon. It was a checkered and ugly history of Rakkoran men and women breaking the bones and spilling the blood of those far weaker for offenses far lesser. The Rakkorans, for their part, never apologized for any of those incidents. Never even considered it. After all, on Mount Targon, a lesser man would _never_ dare to stare at a superior like so. Not unless he had a strong and unhealthy desire to have his own face caved in. And since the Rakkorans viewed themselves as superior to everyone, they considered the incidents to be a non-issue.

At least Fiora was not oblivious to his boredom; she was, if not sympathetic to his plight, at least willing to do whatever it took to stave off the clouds of dark humor brewing above his head. Although still barely more than strangers, she was already highly attuned to his mood (swings); thus, whenever his dark clouds threatened to rain on her parade, she never failed to pause during the middle of wherever they were going or whatever she was saying, and she would look up at him with a calming and candid smile of plain gratitude. Thank you for your patience, my dear connosaur. Just hold on a little longer and I promise you, I _will_ make it your worthwhile.

Her doting smile was disarming. The accompanying pressure of a full bosom rubbing suggestively against his forearm was lobotomizing. The spellbound Pantheon did not stand a chance. He was on his best behavior for the rest of the day, as a baleful sun glowered down on the two from high above...

The dreary day finally drew to a close, the sun's accusatory glare growing dim behind the creeping horizon. The queen bee Fiora had fed voraciously and then some, for she practically swam in the delicious jealousy of her peers. The sleepy-eyed Pantheon was barely keeping his head above water, thanks mostly to the uplifting buoyancy of her chests. Fiora was currently conversing with an older handsome woman who carried her regal self with an unsettling assurance that reminded Pantheon of how Octavia walked about on the streets of Rakkor. He would later find out that, fittingly enough, the woman was none other than the queen of Demacia herself. Wife of King Jarvan III. Mother of Prince Jarvan IV. Yeah. Kind of a big deal. He probably should have paid more attention during the introductions.

Either way, it was fairly obvious that she was a big deal, for she was perpetually surrounded by a dozen armed and armored guards with faces of sheet rock, the only men allowed to carry weapons in the gala. And the guards' leader was none other than Xin Zhao himself, the Seneschal of Demacia. The older leather-faced man totally ignored the babbling Fiora and traded a single perfunctory nod with Pantheon, a gesture of respect between champions who preferred to let their spears do the talking. Then Xin Zhao resumed his watchful vigil, his queen on one side, his famous polearm on the other. His humorless eyes constantly swept the gala for anything out of the ordinary other than Lulu.

The connosaur of tapestries paid a smidgin bit more attention to this particular conversation between the women. Mostly because their words were unusually sincere, providing a welcome breath of fresh air to the drowning Pantheon. Their conversation was also sincerely boring, focusing mostly on botany (apparently the queen was the main driving force behind the design of these gardens), but at least every other sentence was not laced with snobbish measured laughter. For this, he and his aching ears were thankful.

A lull in the conversation now, as the eye of the verbal hurricane passed overhead. Jewel-encrusted fans made their appearance, fluttering idly beneath quiet lady sighs to pass the time of this lovely afternoon...

His ears pricked up as the older woman, Marie Something-Or-Other (the second part of her name was too dainty for him to remember), posed a surprisingly provocative suggestion to his date.

"Fiora, my dear, you should consider joining the League of Legends."

The drowsy Pantheon snapped out of it in a hurry, wondering if Marie was suddenly reverting to the ingratiating facetiousness of the typical Demacian socialite. His gut instinct told him otherwise, however, and his suspicions were confirmed when he checked the queen's serene face; everything registered as completely serious. Not a hint of mirth or humor. If anything, her visage was downright grim for some reason yet to be explained. No, the suggestion was not a whim or joke by any means. The queen of Demacia, wife of a former champion and mother of a current one, legitimately believed that Fiora of Laurent belonged in the same ranks as them.

One quick look at Fiora's cavalier face told him that she clearly believed the same, although she dismissively waved away the queen's suggestion.

"Perhaps some day I shall feel inclined to throw in my lot with the others, your majesty, but for now? I have no need for the title of champion." A concept which Pantheon did not altogether disagree with. "After all, my father's name alone carries more than enough prestige for the likes of me." This, Pantheon found hard to believe. For all her loathing of the norms of nobility, she clearly enjoyed being a shapely figure of importance. Perhaps a ploy of false humility on her part to extract further praise from her audience?

The queen bluntly said, "We need more representatives in the League, my dear. With the recent admission of that peacock Draven, the Noxians now lead us by two in terms of champion count. Not only does this shame us publicly, but this show of weakness can only embolden Noxus and our other enemies in whatever endeavors they pursue to undermine us."

"I understand your concerns, your majesty." Fiora's cavalier smile was gone in deference to the queen's dead seriousness. "However, I am a firm believer in the age-old adage of quality over quantity, and the League, while it has its uses, is hardly an indicator of a nation's true military strength." Her fan drew shut with a polite hiss and click, and she sheathed it somewhere within the waist of her gown. "If it should ever come to blows between us and Noxus in the near future, I have no doubt we will prevail."

"Of course we would prevail, but why even give anyone incentive to think otherwise? There is no longer any reason for you to not apply, dearie. You turned eighteen years old last month, and you are a woman now. Your father's concern about your age no longer applies."

While Pantheon silently sighed in relief at the confirmation of the young woman's legality (it would have been tremendously awkward to find out that he had been flirting with an underage girl all this time), Fiora's eyes and brow turned mischievous as she attempted to deflect the queen's prodding. "Well, I may be eighteen, but please, do not spread rumors. I am not a woman just yet."

Her fingers merged with Pantheon's and her forefinger began to surreptitiously tickle his palm, causing all sorts of things to prick up to attention. None of this escaped the queen as the Lightshield matron laughed rather robotically at the moderately lewd joke; she smiled, but her smile was not one of nostalgia, romantic memories, and first loves. It was as hard as her robot laugh, displeased with Fiora's skillful sidestepping.

Allowing the evasive Fiora to breathe freely for now, the queen turned to Pantheon with her cast iron smile. "Let us seek the counsel of one who knows better than us what it means to be champion, yes? What say you, mighty Pantheon of Rakkor? If this young lady is capable of defeating Garen Crownguard himself in a sparring match, do you not think she is more than qualified to be champion?"

What? An ephemeral flash of surprise crossed his face before he knew it, much to the amusement of both women. He had expected Fiora to be of considerable fighting prowess (for why else would she be so damn arrogant?), but to best the Might of Demacia in combat? Yes, Garen was truly an imbecilic meathead who loved to chase after redheaded tail of the Noxian ilk, but what he lacked for in brainpower, he more than made up for in brawn and endurance as one of the most formidable champions of the League. To come out on top against the likes of him was definitely indicative of champion-level ability.

Thus, Pantheon agreed with the queen in true Pantheon fashion: "Uh... yes."

"Oh, do not read too much into the result of that match!" Fiora was quick to pooh pooh the queen's lofty words, the back of her fingers nonchalantly flicking away at her own chin to rid herself of the hype. "After all, we did spar under fencing rules; it was to be expected that I would be the victor. If it were a no-holds-barred affair where he could have wielded that giant claymore of his, I dare say I would have had much more difficulty."

So, it was as he had suspected; she was a fencer. Made sense, really, considering her flowery graceful movement and lengthy strides bordering on lunges. And how gracious of her to concede that she might have difficulty defeating Garen under real combat conditions, Pantheon dryly thought to himself.

The queen was already back on Fiora's arse. "Oh, quit selling yourself short, my dear, for no one is buying it! Garen has not lost a sparring match in years regardless of the rule sets placed upon him! To take a match from him in any form of combat is a huge feat in its own right." The huffing stopped, and a waiting butler handed her a crystal prism of a water glass so that she may take a sip to cool her head. "Now, Fiora dear, I know you are a strong headed girl who fancies herself to be special – and you _are_ special, make no mistake about that - but you are still a Demacian through and through. You cannot deny your civic duty. When your country calls for your service, you _must_ answer."

For once, Fiora was quiet in both tongue and face, no longer smiling as she looked down and away at the carpet of grass beneath their feet, where the lush green blades danced freely to the breeze and muted orchestral music. Not that she didn't have a multitude of choice words lingering at her lips in response to the queen's admonishing tone, Pantheon was sure. Most likely she was editing herself down so that she would not say anything which might infuriate the most powerful woman of Demacia...

She finally lifted her head with a response as short and stiff as the smile she mustered. "I will consider it, your majesty."

Fiora's reply was anything but committal, but the queen was visibly pleased nonetheless. Any concession by the young lady of Laurent, no matter how small, was a rare occurrence indeed. The savvy monarch decided to press her testy quarry no further, and she started to speak with the commanding air of one who wishes to abruptly change subjects -

In rushed a lightly armored guard not from her detail, and Marie Something-Or-Other paused as the man hastily greeted her with an elaborate salute. The man's face was familiar to Xin Zhao, thus the champion allowed him to stand close enough to the queen so that he may whisper something into her ear.

The queen clicked her tongue in disapproval as she swatted at her free hand with her closed fan. "Really now." A resigned sigh. "Very well, tell him I will be there shortly."

The newcomer of a guard exited as fast as he arrived, diving into and swallowed up by the western wall of milling party guests, and Marie turned to Fiora and Pantheon. "I must bid farewell, for it appears my husband needs my assistance in entertaining the considerable Freljord contingent. Who knew that Freljord would have so many champions lying in the woodwork?" A whimsical roll of her eyes which Fiora would have smiled at only two minutes ago. Then a surprisingly pointed stare at Pantheon. "You two behave yourselves, hmm? Until we meet again."

With a flourish, she turned to leave. The champion and maybe-champion sent the queen off with a bow and curtsy, and away she went, closely followed by her entourage of shiny men bristling with spears and swords. Fiora waited until the queen was definitely out of earshot, then seized his wrist with one of her fencer's hands. No mincing around with flirty fingers this time. Her hand flexed its true strength for the first time and the grip was fiercely discomforting, digging all the way to his very bones. Even more discomforting was the foreign manner with which she held him. Needy. Desperate. Fairly reminiscent of how Luxanna held onto Garen.

"Come." Her voice was as low and forlorn as her mood. And although they were still outside under blue skies, she murmured, "Let us find a breathe of fresh air."

She kept her head turned away in a futile attempt to hide how upset she was. But her hand tugged gently enough on his, and he followed her to a little alcove of dense arched shrubbery which seemed to be designed for the very purpose of hiding away a couple in search of privacy, its interior complete with a rectangular chunk of smoky marble serving as a bench. Pantheon noted that the bench was for two, for the top had a pair of shallow hollows scooped out for a pair of ample rear ends. Unfortunately for him, in Demacia, ladies sat down first, and Fiora's gigantic skirt enveloped the entire bench and then some as she lowered herself, neatly forming a silken blue toadstool cap on top of the marble stalk.

He scrunched his face at her ridiculous clothing, and he tilted his head in search of sitting space. His angular perplexity drew a welcome, if not wan, giggle from Fiora, and some life returned to her sallow face as she invitingly patted her looming lap.

"You may sit here if you wish, my dear connosaur."

Not a serious offer, of course, since the hulking Rakkoran was almost twice her body mass. But she did offer a particularly winning and naked smile now as she gazed up at him from where she sat, and he had to forcibly sit himself down on the grass right then and there, lest he impulsively seize her by the shoulders and draw her close to him in a most inappropriate manner.

He explained, "The men of Rakkor sit on the laps of their women only on the weekends."

"Oh, but of course." A little bit disappointed and a great bit amused. At least her color had mostly returned by now. "Perhaps it is I who should be sitting on your lap, then?"

"I am going to be blunt. What you suggest is impossible with that dress you currently wear."

A girlish giggle even as she struggled to look angry with him. "I take it you do not approve of this dress?"

"It amazes me how you can look so lovely in such a ridiculous thing."

"Oh! How dare you!" Her lips parted open in an outraged smile, and she flung her taut face to the side with an exaggerated heave-ho of a huff. "I wish for your company no more, champion of Rakkor. Go jump off a cliff for all I care!"

"Mmm hmm." Her neck was baring itself to him now, and he grinned as his eyes wandered back and forth over its slender profile. Gods, he simply could not stop staring at its fair skin and elegant arch. For some reason, he found himself admiring her neck more often than he did her chest. Perhaps because while her chest was somewhat clothed, her neck was utterly naked and vulnerable. That had to be the reason, because her chest was certainly admirable in its own right. No doubt she was aware of her neck's allure, thus why she kept her hair on the shorter side. It served as a stark reminder of her femininity despite her man's hands and man's strength...

His eyes dropped down to her hands now. The huge gloved hands of a fencer who had bested Garen Crownguard in a competition of speed and skill.

He had to ask. "Why do you avoid the League? Would it not be a great honor to become champion?"

Her smile and energy vanished at the innocent question and, for a moment, she seemed offended that he did not play along with her mock outrage. Then a sickly rueful smile. "Yes, it would be a great honor for me, would it not? But my venerable queen wishes me to be champion neither for my benefit, nor for our country."

He was confused. "Then for what reason?"

She looked like she was about to vomit. "She fancies that I would be a good match for her son."

Like always with such matters, Pantheon was ever slow on the uptake. "You mean... marriage?"

Fiora looked at him as if he were a dolt (and justifiably so). "Of course, marriage! What did you think I was referring to? Badminton doubles?!"

He absorbed her snappish remark with veteran aplomb, having absorbed so many verbal and physical jabs from Leona in the past, and he cut straight to the meat of the matter. "I don't understand your concern. If he asks for your hand yet you do not care for him, can't you just say no?"

"HA HA HA HA HA!" Fiora's tight scowl detonated into genuine tears of laughter at his naïve words, and she doubled over onto her lap with a whoosh of bobbed brown hair. Her bare muscular shoulders quaked as brunette locks of hair and blue gloves of silk covered her face. The very image of a woman laughing herself to death. Or a crying woman ransacked with misery. The choking sobs slipping through her fingers were ambiguous, failing to indicate one way or the other. So he waited.

She finally pulled herself upright with a hiccup of a sigh, and she dabbed at the corners of her reddened eyes with a handkerchief conjured via magic trick. "I am so glad to have met you, oh mighty comedian of Rakkor! It has been years since I have laughed like so!"

Not sure how to respond to her backhanded compliment, he said the most obvious thing to come to mind: "What's so funny?"

Another giggle from Fiora. Almost manic this giggle was, teetering dangerously towards the Luxanna zone. She managed to compose herself, though, so she could answer his silly question. "No, Pantheon of Rakkor, I can not just say no. No one says no to the royal family. For one to reject a Lightshield man's hand in marriage, she might as well light her own estate on fire and sow her family's fields with salt." Pantheon's blank face angered and entertained her. "You really have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?! Does Rakkor not have any semblance of caste system? Royalty, nobility, bourgeoisie, commoners?"

Oh. _That_ stuff. Bah. "The only classes we have in Rakkor are the strong and the dead."

"Ah. Such a primitive and simplistic system... yet, so wonderfully fair and impartial." The wistful Fiora meant that with all her heart. "In Rakkor, I suppose a woman could reject a man with simple violence, yes?"

"Yes. And I don't understand. Why would you becoming champion turn you into the wife of Prince Jarvan?"

"Oh, but you underestimate the wiles of a matchmaking mother! You see, she aims to create a power couple for the ages! Jarvan and I absolutely can not stand each other, but the prince always thinks of his beloved country first and foremost! So long as his mother has his ear while he chooses his queen-to-be, there is always the chance he will decide that the future of his nation and the bloodlines of his progeny override all else! Who cares about love when you can have two champions of the League, side by side, leading Demacia to an era of glory and prosperity that will be forever celebrated by the songs of bards! Can you imagine such a spectacular sight, hmm?!"

With a gut-wrenching pang of guilt, Pantheon suddenly remembered Leona, whom all of Rakkor considered to be his destiny. And he visibly withdrew into himself, turning morose to Fiora's fire as he muttered distractedly, "What you describe is not so unusual among other nations, I would think."

"It is as you say." A dirty sneer from her. "Why, we already have our very own champion couple of convenience, do we not? In the form of Queen Ashe, King Tryndamere, and their unified nations? Where is this King Tryndamere anyway, hmm? Where is he while Ashe walks alone here among strangers?"

An instinctive and feeble attempt to defend a member of his own gender, even though he had never met the man. "Perhaps he is busy with, uh, more important matters?"

"Yes, that would be standard for a marriage of royalty, would it not? There will always be matters more important than his own wife, hmm?! Do you not see how she watches us while we laugh and walk arm in arm?! I saw how she followed you with her eyes when you jumped to the flowers, I saw how she lusted and pined for a measly blue blossom of her own! She is so unhappy and unsatisfied beneath it all, if not for her reputation and the sake of her entire country, I dare say she would devour you whole if given the chance!"

Despite the spectre of Leona hanging over his head and Fiora practically fuming into his face, Pantheon could not help but wonder for a moment what it would be like to have the queen of Avarosa herself wriggling and moaning beneath him. His overwhelmed face was too bewildered for Fiora to pick up on this (thankfully), and she continued to rave almost to herself.

"Oh, and of course, Queen Marie would _never_ stand for her son's betrothed to be a commoner. The bride absolutely _must_ be a noblewoman, else the purity of the Lightshield bloodline becomes stained, yes?! What a coincidence that she should begin nagging me mid yesteryear, on the very month when her son becomes familiar with a rather fetching scout who rises rapidly within the ranks? But while this scout is of mild temperament and a perfect match for one as controlling and obstinate as he, she comes from a humble background and her best friend is an overgrown bird, so of course the queen deems her as an unworthy commoner with a case of the cuckoos!"

She decided that it was now his turn to speak; with eyes blazing and nostrils flaring, she stared expectantly and violently at Pantheon, waiting for him to say something, anything, which validated her histrionics. And of course, Pantheon had no idea what to say, his head fairly spinning like a whirligig. Ever the poor listener, he finally managed a half-baked summary of what he gleaned from her hushed tirade.

"So... you do not want to marry into royalty?"

Her exasperated correction was a rush of hot air, almost an outright yell, as she pounded her lap with the bottoms of her fists: "I want to marry into _love_ -" She slapped her hands over her agonized face and dragged, fingertips pulling down her damp cheeks, reducing the sharpness of her blue-gray eyes into melancholy droopy. A moan of embarrassment: "Oh my god, why am I even _telling_ you this, I don't even _know_ you! Yet here I am, bleeding my heart to you like a stuck pig! I am a dithering fool seeking solace from a deaf dolt!"

A silent Pantheon shifted uncomfortably from his seat on the ground. Her chest was heaving in a manner that could not be ignored, and he fleetingly wondered who had the larger bosom, Fiora or Ashe...

A new emotion washed over her face, and it was a surprising one: guilt. Her hands and head dropped back down to her lap, and she murmured ashamedly, unable to bring her eyes to his: "There is already a woman in your life, isn't there?"

Her words had the impact of a Bilgewater blunderbuss fired point-blank, and they sent Pantheon reeling. "Why – why do you say that?"

"Whenever I speak to you, as wild and savage as you seem to be... I cannot help but feel that you have already been - for lack of a better word - trained by a woman."

The Rakkoran champion blinked at her choice of wording. His formerly panicky face grew long in consternation as his voice drew short. "Trained?"

"Yes, trained. Tamed. What have you." She was the voice and picture of a warrior already defeated. "You are obviously a terribly poor listener, and you hear at best half the words which come out of my mouth... but you try to listen anyway, which is all a woman wants. This is so rare among men of power, you have no idea..."

Pantheon was only half listening. Because _by the gods, she was right!_ The revelation almost staggered Pantheon as he recalled all the lectures with Leona. The finger wagging. The long winding walks with one-sided talks. The pinches to the arm. The broadswords to the face. As an orphan with no parents or siblings, he had starved for belonging to someone or something. Spending so much time growing up under the roof of Leona's family and eating (ravenously) at their table, he had just sort of accepted that this was how a boy and girl normally interacted, and never really thought twice about it. Had never felt the need to contemplate because he was both lucky and grateful to have Leona in his life, and that had always been enough for him.

Until now. "Now" being three years almost to the day since since he had last seen her.

In a way, Rakkor was a psychologist's wet dream of a long term study. A sample size consisting of thousands upon thousands of alpha personalities, all crammed into one smallish nation, their uneasy coexistence regulated only by harsh military discipline, a pecking order established through brute force, and a methodical cultural brainwashing which started from the moment they were born to this world. Even better for the psychologist, there were no meek personalities to pollute the environment of this social experiment, for the meek had been killed off by the Rite of Kor centuries ago.

People with alpha personalities tend to "act out" when they feel the need to assert themselves. The savvy ones balanced their acting out with grace and foresight, so as not to step on too many toes. The not-so-savvy usually did something "utterly dumb and foolish", quoth the Octavia, which they would later regret. I'll let you guess for yourselves which category Pantheon happened to fall under. He who likes to wear his helmet indoors.

Pantheon wore the face of the sucker at the poker table, and Fiora's tinkling yet sad laughter rebounded off the cozy green walls of the alcove. "Do not be offended, my dear connosaur. If she makes the time to shape you as she sees fit, it means she cares greatly for you..."

Her words rang true. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, they were of small consolation to Pantheon as discontent began to fester within his belly.

_Leona really has been taming me all this time! Conditioning and molding me as she sees fit!_

Never the deepest of thinkers, he promptly stood up and drew himself to his full height for no good reason at all, an incoherent motivation still coming together somewhere deep inside. His actions were assertive enough, however, and his massive frame ominously blotted out the sun from Fiora's eyes as he towered over her withdrawn and sitting self. The bright rays no longer in her face, her eyes grew large. Then doubly large, as it struck her that he might very well be walking out of her life this very moment. Leaving the lady of Laurent huddled within the depths of her little green sanctuary on a cold slab of marble. All alone.

She sharply called to him with a scrabble of panic, hurt, and anger in her throat: "Pantheon Markus?!"

He abruptly presented an open hand to her. "Come. Let us go indoors to the evening ball."

A small sound and wide smile of relief, and she immediately stood up at his behest, her fencer's feet performing a happy little hop forward to ensure that her ridiculous skirt cleared the bench. "I thought you would never ask, my dear connosaur!"

Of the fact that he never answered her speculations of another woman, she pretended to be blissfully ignorant, afraid that if she cornered him into an answer, he would finally come to his senses and free himself from her spell. And this fear was certainly well-founded, for he was certainly not quite right in the mind at the moment. His strong chin set in a permanently defiant jut. Blinders of wool pulled over the gray eyes that normally saw all. He had that unreasonable look of a man who would forever walk towards the ends of the earth to prove its flatness. His face was the face of obstinacy itself. She knew it very well, because it was the only face which Prince Jarvan IV wore. Sometimes it was an attractive face, because determination could be very attractive indeed. Most times for her, however, it was infuriating, for it was the face of a man who was always right and never wrong.

Tonight, she found this face attractive because it worked in her favor. Obstinate Pantheon was hellbent on spending the rest of this day with her.

Whether or not the night culminated in her breath panting raggedly against his naked chest, he sincerely did not care. All he knew was that this woman was devastatingly attractive and nothing would stop him from enjoying her company, consequences be damned. Octavia's warnings be damned. Leona's taming/training/domesticating/whatever be damned. The twins' good-natured teasing be damned. Everything be damned. For he was the mightiest warrior of the mightiest nation in all of Runeterra, and such a man _would not be denied._

But still. It would be better if Leona never found out about this other woman. Because, you know, Pantheon already found life to be complicated enough as is. Or something.

Anyway. Pantheon's jutting chin led the way for a beaming Fiora as they merged with the rest of the masses, who were slowly moving with that distinctive side-to-side waddle which can only be found within large crowds of humans or penguins. While they waddled in an orderly fashion towards the decorative front pillars of the skyward white mansion which housed the Lightshields' palatial ballroom, a couple things stood out to Pantheon as he watched the flock of humanity before him. Watched as they slowly disappeared through an astonishing number of periodic double-door entrances along the endless front wall that served as the mansion's face. First, he could tell that the ballroom was _huuuge_. Obstinate Pantheon may have had his blinders on, but he could still see straight ahead just fine; and from what he could see from between the speckless golden muntin of flowing glass windows, there were no walls on the other side to speak of. Second, the body odor of the masses was pretty damn strong; due to their long-term exposure to the sun, their heavy perfume had given way long ago to sticky and dried layers of sweat and funk. Demacian nobility were veterans of these sort of parties, however, and for this particular problem, they had come prepared with a solution in a bottle: more perfume.

Pantheon noticed that it was the noblewomen who were tasked with odor-control duty. Everywhere around him, ladies were producing rather sizable bottles of perfume and cologne from purses and pouches, and they were patting aromatic fluids left and right onto anyone who needed any. He could hear Fiora rummaging by his side, searching for something inside something, as she alternated between cursing under her breath and sweetly warning the nearby ladies to keep their hands off him...

A few oaths later, she finally found what she was looking for, and a huge yet delicate hand reached up to gently turn his jutting chin to her. She then held up a bottle of cologne for his perusal like how a spokesmodel would: with both hands and a brilliant energetic smile which bore no hint of her trials and tribulations just minutes ago. "My father's," she informed him with the glee of a girl about to play dress up with a two-hundred-fifty pound Ken doll. "Trust me, it is an exquisite scent."

Her Ken doll tried to squirm his way out of playing. "If it belongs to your father, why don't you put it on your father instead?"

"Oh, he is not here tonight," she said with a casual air as she started to dab cologne onto his neck without his permission. "Confined to his bed. Doctor's orders. Fought in a duel last week. Stay still!"

Ken stayed still. "Did he win?"

"Of course!" The air of a proud daughter now, as her entire body puffed upwards and outwards. "My father is one of the top five duelists in all of Demacia!"

He had to admit, the cologne did smell good. A very manly smell, thank god. Not some wishy washy concoction of fruits and flowers. "Dueling is popular here in Demacia? I had no idea."

"Our nation's leaders generally don't settle their arguments with death matches, so our dueling culture is not quite as flamboyant or publicized as Noxus's. But believe me, the art of dueling here is alive and thriving, if not a bit underground." She finally pulled her coveting hands away from his body. "Done!"

Fiora slapped home the cap of the cologne bottle and put away the cologne into a diamond-laden blue suede purse that he could have sworn she did not have on her body earlier. Then she retrieved a different bottle and, with a risque smile and jaunty bounce of the hips, thrust it out to him.

"Here." She slurred like a drunken woman rubbing up against her target for the night. "You may do me now."

Even as goosebumps raced down his arms and neck, he took the bottle of perfume from her as if it were a dead Twitch. "Uh, where do I put this stuff?"

"Hmmm..." She shot him a smile that was absolutely rated M for mature, then turned her mostly bare back to him and spread her arms wide so that he may admire the chiseled definition of her impressive musculature in the context of motion. Steeled lean muscles working and rolling beneath skin unusually flawless and unmarked for one of a warrior's discipline.

She shivered and sighed with palpable anticipation as she waited for his touch. "Surprise me."

He reached forward with a dirty grin and outstretched hands, well-aware that he was plunging headfirst into the web of a woman surely more crafty than he. He was aware of what his weaknesses were, and he knew he was a soldier first, person of limited social ability/experience second. He was, after all, the product of a "primitive and simplistic" culture where might made right. Where people bowed obediently to what few words he spoke solely because he could break their face long before they touched his. He was a man of "power", yet he disdained (feared?) the complications that came along with such prestige; he had yet to truly taste the vile rancidness of political and social undercurrents, dealings, and conspiracies. His daily dilemmas were almost always simple and straightforward, rarely more complicated than "I need to find heavier things to lift" or "I hope Octavia does not say hello to me today"...

Whatever. He pushed his thoughts aside before they even began. If she were to use him as much as he used her, so be it. Fair is fair. Besides, even if he were a pawn caught up in some greater scheme of things, what did that matter when this pawn could beat the crap out of any other piece on the chessboard.

Speaking of chess pieces. He could see the queen off to the right through his blinders, and the queen's mouth was a puckered lemon sour. The monarch was clearly none at all pleased to see that the giggling Fiora still retained a two-hundred-fifty pound buffer of a Rakkor champion between herself and Prince Jarvan IV. He wondered if the queen was scheming of a way to remove him from the party. Perhaps she would sic her lap dog Xin Zhao onto him for the purpose of inciting a ruckus worthy of expulsion. A rude bump of the shoulder here. A nasty glare and scowl there.

That would be nice, he immediately decided. Yes, that would be nice. He would like to test Xin Zhao's mettle -

No, no, no, don't be silly, Pantheon chided himself. While the Rakkor normally loved nothing more than a good fight, he had to see the bigger picture here. Fights were easy to find in Rakkor, everywhere and every day. But this woman here before him, as she wiggled and sighed from the touch of his raspy fingers, she was rare. Three years and counting now. Just one dance with her, nothing more (it had yet to occur to him that he knew nothing of ballroom dancing). What was one harmless night compared to three years of abstinence and solitude?

No fighting, Pantheon had to remind himself over and over, as her fingers intertwined with his and led him through one of the cavernous double-doors. No fighting. The queen would test him, of that he was sure, but he would not rise to her goading. He would channel the immortal patience and wisdom of the cryophoenix herself. He would not do something utterly stupid and foolish now to ruin his chance at doing something else utterly stupid and foolish later in the night. Of that, he was sure.

Then he met the Crownguards.

END OF CHAPTER

Notes: This chapter was a total mess after the initial write. I had literally five or six different ideas to go with, and I finally chose the route that I think was best. The common theme among all the ideas was to expound on the expectations placed on a noblewoman. I wanted to do this because Lux's judgment is one of the most intriguing of champion judgments (read it if you haven't already), and I can only imagine similar pressures and expectations would be placed on the shoulders of another highly-regarded noblewoman like Fiora.

As always, please leave any feedback and constructive criticism you might have. I am always striving to improve my writing, need inputssss!

**In response to reviews since I last updated this story:**

Sun and war, instead of war and sun, for the end of chapter 4? Hmm, one could say that placing Leona first would mean she is the more important... or maybe by placing her second, you are saving the best for last? Hmmm hmm hmmm...

As for the ***** asterisks censorship stuff, I post the chapters first on the LoL forums, then I copy and paste them here. That's why the censoring shows up, it's the forums! I'll go back and replace the *****'s later when I have the time.

As for Pantheon and his perfect win record "so far", the party happens during a time when he is still a newly anointed champion. So basically, he is OP on release, then Riot will nerf him and he will lose and blame his teammates for feeding.

As for Lux x Garen, I added them more for shits and giggles. Don't take TOO seriously.


	8. The Rabbit and the Turtle

_Seven Years Ago_

Whenever one floats out the word "Rakkor" to another during conversation, two stereotypical images reflexively spring to mind for the addressed. Firstly, he thinks of those brutish savages which compose Rakkor's martial populace. Rows upon rows of huge swarthy men armed to the teeth with all manners of blade, boasting bodies as bronzed as their armor plating. Bloody merciless eyes glow from within the tall keyholes of otherwise impenetrable shadow at the front of their hawkish helmets. It is a sobering thought for any warrior of repute. A frightening thought for anyone else.

Then, secondly, the man's mind imagines what he knows of the Rakkor's homeland. While Freljord is reputed to be a harsh world of ice-capped peaks and shivering beasts with icicles for whiskers, Rakkor is the polar opposite, generally perceived as an equally harsh land of sunburned mountains with parched valleys as barren as the delta between an elderly woman's legs. Outsiders think of Rakkor as an infertile world of chalky bright red rock, where the baked hard-packed fields of veined dirt give birth to only boulders and tumbleweeds. The boulders die where they stand. The scraggly tumble weeds make it as far as the nearest canyon's wall or cliff, before stopping or dropping to an inglorious end.

There is some truth to this perception and its red tinge, for much of the Rakkor homeland is definitely not forgiving to its inhabitants. Yet, somewhere within the hundreds of outstretched red rock fingers that are weather-worn buttes grasping for the sky, life does thrive. For there are hidden valleys fern green and lush, and the panoramic view from afar is one of such enchanting beauty and tranquility, angels among the clouds weep uncontrollably whenever they cast their eyes downwards (that's how the ancient Rakkorans rationalized the natural phenomena of rainfall, at least). It was here, thousands of years ago, that a gigantic conglomerate of nomadic warlike tribes initially swarmed in on their war horses of cloudy thunder dust, only to trip and stumble headfirst into the soft and quieting lap of this earthly heaven. Like the angels who watch over them, the tribesmen were utterly entranced with these pristine valleys and, after much discussion and a little bloodshed, the overwhelming majority of these tribes decided to take root, eventually blossoming into the fearsome military state known today as Rakkor. Honestly, it takes just one cursory glance at the giants who pass for men and women on the ashy brick roads winding around Mount Targon, and any moderately smart individual can figure out for himself that this is most definitely not a barren world where nature does not nurture. There is simply no way a people can grow that big on a steady diet of bugs, weeds, and the occasional rock rabbit.

Although not suitable for dwelling, the extensive deadened network of red rock canyons and crevasses which envelop the valley does serve a purpose. The terrain is unsure and uneven, making for tedious and laborious travel. And of the few trails and roads one can take straight into Rakkor, they are all narrow and vulnerable to attack from the front and above. This makes it exceedingly difficult for an enemy to invade and overwhelm, even when considering how the Rakkorans ritualistically and systematically curtail their own population. This is why the Rakkor's home is called the Tiger's Den; once you go in, you do not come back out.

Today, however, a certain Rakkoran teenage boy navigates this discouraging terrain with ease. He intermittently bounds from boulder to boulder, his eyes glued to the horizon as his shoes feel for and slip into footholds with the infallible instincts of a mountain goat. He is here to indulge his jumping fetish as he surveys the familiar peaks and butte fingertips, searching for a new measuring stick which he has yet to clear. For a young man who is forever pushing himself to jump farther and higher, this red world is his personal playground.

Normally, he does not hold between boulder hops; but today, his best friend is tagging along on her first venture out to this western outlier. And since she is hardly the leaper that he is, she chooses to just tough it out on the ground. The going is indeed tough, for the pathless surface is much more large chunks of rock than it is dirt, a badly rolled ankle just waiting to happen. Her careful trudging is as slow as uphill molasses on a Freljord day, and the grumbling girl is already falling noticeably behind. So for now, he comes to a standstill perch on one of the numerous lopsided plateaus of shorn metamorphic boulders and looks back to her.

From ten feet below and thirty feet behind, she shuffles forward with the doggedness of a rumbling tractor, a harbinger of the fighting style she will eventually employ. Her long auburn hair, slightly darker than the red of the rock and infinitely more beautiful, is swept back in a tight ponytail of subtle vanity. Like her tormentor ahead, she is dressed in a simple red cotton tunic, the typical garb of Rakkor who have not yet reached the age of battle-readiness. The tunic's red is a cherry darker and its interwoven cotton infinitely uglier than the lacquered ponytail that dances between her shoulders.

His voice is obnoxious but not unkind. "Hey! Slowpoke! You coming or what?!"

At the boy's taunt, the Rakkoran tractor now pauses to vent angry steam. "You'd be singing a different tune if you bore the burden of this backpack, you stupid rabbit!"

He brushes aside the pet name which makes light of his jumping ways. "Hey, you were the one who wanted to bring along the medical stuff! So you're the one who gets to carry it!"

She jiggles up and down to emphasize the bulky knapsack which now jostles along on her shoulders. "So what! This first aid kit is for you, you blithering idiot!"

"Bah, I won't need it. I ain't gonna spill myself on the ground again." He insists this even as the saucer-sized day-old scabs on his kneecaps throb and burn in agreement with her.

The pot grumbles to the kettle: "God, you are so stubborn sometimes..."

The tractor starts up her engine again and, half a minute later, she grinds to a halt underneath his perch. He is squatting now with a hyena's grin from within his helmet, hands lazily dangling outwards as his elbows rest on mangled knees...

His helmet. _Oh gods,_ she thinks tiredly to herself, the fatigue most definitely in her mind rather than her sturdy legs. Markus being Markus, he is an utter fashion disaster as usual. His omnipresent grandly crested war helmet is juxtaposed with the humble red-dyed cotton tunic of a civilian, resulting in a tall lanky bobblehead of a Rakkoran fourteen year old. On the streets, he can get away with this ridiculous look because he simply beats the **** out of anyone who dares to make fun of him. Out here on the wild red trails, Leona decides to let pass his fashion faux pas; after all, it would be prudent to have his dense head protected in the event he should fall again during one of his crazy jumps.

The bobble head calls out to her now. "Hey Leona."

"What?"

"Isn't the turtle supposed to beat the rabbit?"

"Oh, shut up." She shakes her head at the overgrown brat as she jumps onto the ten-foot boulder with him. Her movement does not quite have his innate gazelle's grace, but she still lands with ease and they now share the uneven perch together. He is turned away from her, already scanning the horizon once again, and for a moment, she is sorely tempted to wedge her foot between his tunic-clad arse cheeks, shove him off the edge, and validate the presence of the medical knapsack on her back. She keeps her foot in check, though, because she takes pride in being the mature one of the two. Then again, she is quite sure this title will forever be hers by default since he is the one who still laughs at flatulence humor.

Instead of sending him yowling over the edge, she turns to the clear early afternoon skies with him and she asks, "What are you looking for, Markus?"

He gestures with an indifferent hand to the rock garden of peaks and buttes fenced in by the horizon. "I look for something I haven't jumped onto yet."

"_What?!_" She is so shocked by his answer that she herself almost slips and topples over the edge. "You can't be serious! There are _hundreds_ of rocks out there! You can't have jumped onto _all_ of them!"

He is serious. "Why not? I've had the time."

_By the gods!_ She cranes her head up at the nearest butte, its top probably a falcon's dive of eighty yards away. And this butte happens to be one of the smallest ones, too! _How the hell has he not broken his neck yet jumping onto and falling off these stupid things?!_

This revelation convinces her that she was right to come along with him on his silly jumping expedition. When he showed up to her house at the usual dinner time yesterday, Leona and her mother nearly blew their collective gaskets when they saw that he had knees so raw, it was as if Leona had taken the cheese grater to his legs instead of last night's slab of provolone. She knew he did not suffer these injuries during afternoon training, for Leona had been with him the entire time. He also did not get those injuries from some random scrap with some other boy because Markus almost never gets hurt during his pointless back alley brawls.

"Markus!" Leona stood at her doorway with hands on hips, barring him from entering even as his nostrils fluctuated piggishly at the tantalizing aromas of garlicky pasta and rich cheese sauce drifting past her shoulders. "Have you been jumping again?!"

"Yes." Well, at least he didn't try to fib his way out of it.

Leona hates it when he jumps. Hates it, hates it, hates it. Jagen jumps, he tells her. Jagen is a fully grown man who knows what the hell he is doing, she retorts. Stop being a scaredy cat, I know what I'm doing, he says. It's not being scared, it's being smart, she fires back.

Nobody really knows why a small share of the Rakkorans have been blessed with the ability to soar with the birds. In our world, it is somewhat comparable to how some men can do 360 degree spinning tomahawk jams when dunking a basketball, while other men of similar height can barely even graze the rim with their fingers. In their world, it is very comparable to how some League champions can jump over a wall or some other natural obstacle on the battlefield of Summoner's Rift, but there is only one champion who can jump over _all_ of them at once. Chakra, muscle types, muscle twitches, there are a multitude of potential theories as to why a man can launch himself higher than a Piltover rocket. Leona does not know of the majority of these theories, but she does know this. Last year, when Markus tried to jump _in earnest_ for the very first time, he had badly underestimated his body's and chakra's strength; he ended up catapulting himself over the village wall and the nearby river, eventually crash-landing somewhere on the far stony riverbank.

She had run in vain after his rapidly disappearing form, able to follow the breadcrumb echoes of his surprised holler, all the time squalling with the headless panic of an anxious mother duck who has lost sight of her favorite duckling. Her concerns were none too alleviated by the sight of him lying in an awkward heap among a nest of thankfully water-smoothed rocks, his limbs twisted together in a seemingly disembodied jumble. Beginner's luck smiled on him that day, though, as he popped back up to his feet, dusted himself off, and pronounced himself fit to jump again. Only to be battered down moments later by the loving hammer fists of an irate Leona.

That day, she made him promise that he would first learn how to fall before he did any more of those crazy jumps. But he would sneak off and jump anyway, for he was already hooked. It was roughly around this time that she made the upgrade from hammer fists to broadsword flats.

So it is with a tight face that she looks around herself at the buttes and mesas with the blatant disinterest of a man forced to watch a chick flick. Unsurprisingly, she picks out the shortest one for him. "Go jump on that one, then let's go home."

"That one?! That's not even a challenge! That is seriously the first one I jumped when I found this area!"

"Then it'll be the second time you've jumped onto it. Come on, just hurry up and do it, the sun shall go to bed soon and I have no desire to stumble around these rocks in the dark."

He checks on the sun to confirm that it still loiters where he last remembers: almost directly above their heads. Then he gives her a cross look. Impending sunset indeed...

Then suddenly his face becomes serene, almost seductive. He speaks with the voice of reason itself. "Let me jump on it three times then, and we can call it a day. How about that?"

Leona is caught with her pants down by his gentlemanly compromise and soothing bedroom eyes. For she is also fourteen years of age and lately she is coming to grips with the dawning truth that he really is startlingly handsome when he isn't being a brat. Then the britches come back up mighty quick when she realizes that Markus, the worst fibber imaginable, is obviously fibbing right now.

She reaches out to grab a hold of his arm, but he has already slipped out of reach, helmet head a bobbling and cackling as he hops three boulders away from her and gives her the thumb-to-nose.

A growl that promises great suffering, a la Mordekaiser: "Markus, don't you _dare_ - "

The mother duck squawks and flaps her wings for balance as her unruly duckling launches itself into the sky, leaving behind a sonic boom as small as a sonic boom can be. Her ponytail flagellates in the residual gusts. In spite of her fears that he is going to dash his brains against some red rock wall, helmet or no helmet, she catches her breath and watches in awe as he soars upwards in defiance of the sky. Her duckling dwindles into a flea against the blue canvas with white cloud smudges, and he settles on top of a long spindly tower that seemingly threatens to topple over any moment. Of course he would pick a rock that is almost three times as tall as her conservative choice. Show off.

His hyena's cackling now rains down on her from the lower strata of the atmosphere. "See? No big deal!"

She may be the mature one of the two, but she is not above baldfaced lying as she uses his words against him. "Exactly! Not a big deal! You think I'm impressed?!"

"Oh?" More cackling from the duckling as he returns to his mother, and she jumps in her shoes as his falling form hits the boulder next to her with a gentle slam that generates a fleeting red sandstorm, his feet digging deep into the landing pad and staying home without a hint of a gyroscope's wobble. As impressive as his initial jump was, she has to admit that his flawless dismount was even more mind-blowing; he has landed squarely on a sliver of a ledge that is barely twice the width of his shoes. At least he kept his promise. He has definitely learned how to fall.

As the sandstorm dissipates, she notices an alien bloody red streaked along the landing pad's edge, and the markings seem fresh. Her eyes widen. "Wait a minute! Is this the same boulder on which you ripped your knees apart yesterday?!"

"Yeah."

"And you just jumped onto it again today without a second thought or warning me in advance?!"

"Yeah."

She dearly wishes she had her broadsword on her. For now, she'll have to make do with fists waved menacingly in his general direction. "Markus, you are absolutely incorrigible, do you know that?!"

In all seriousness: "Incorri-what?"

Her fists thrust to the sky and she beseeches for divine assistance with this idiotic idiot of all things idiot. The self-fancied tigress voices a throaty "Arrrrrrrrrrrr!" with a guttural growl worthy of Bilgewater, the only difference being that while the Bilgewater arrrr denotes approval, the Leona arrrr rattles with frustration. Then again, should she expect anything less reckless from her hop-happy friend? He is a preternaturally fast learner so long as the lessons do not involve books, and that he should be able to neatly land on this rock today when he was wiping out only yesterday comes as no big surprise to her.

Whatever. The important thing was that he got to do his stupid jump. "Ok, you've had your fun. Time to go home."

Needless to say, this duckling is not yet ready to head back to the safety of the nest. "You should try jumping. It's fun!"

"Markus, don't even try going down that route. You know I'm nowhere near the rabbit that you are." This admittance grinds her gourd something fierce, by the way, for she is a rabidly competitive individual who _hates_ to lose, and the fact that he is surpassing her physically in various ways makes her want to tear her gorgeous hair out. Only three years ago, she was almost a head taller than him and able to bop the top of his helmet with impunity. Now? The bean sprout is half a head taller and still going strong, although for whatever reason, he still lets her bop him on the head (he prefers to think of the bopping as a test of his own toughness). She is still able to wrestle with him on near equal grounds, but the scales are starting to tip into his favor with growing consistency. And she no longer competes in foot races with him because the results downright depress her. None of the other men can even come close to besting her in physical contests, but those victories do not ameliorate the grinding within for none of those men eat dinner with her family every night. And Markus is an infamously ungracious winner.

In a stunning role reversal, he is now the one doing the lecturing. "Honestly, Leona, there's no harm in trying. You don't get better if you don't try."

She plays the role of Petulant Markus very well. "No. Way. End of story."

He is right, of course. You don't get better if you don't try. The only problem is that she _has_ tried to get better at jumping. The day after Markus landed headfirst into a riverbank, she tip toed off on her own to a private hiding spot in the forest where she and Markus used to hang out as wee ones, and she spent the next several hours trying to unlock a hidden jumping potential that simply wasn't there (for she was special in other ways that would be revealed during her Rite of Kor). Her knees ended up nearly as gruesome as his were last night, and she spent the next couple days bedridden and grossly swollen with bee stings (her highest jump resulted in her flying facefirst into a flimsy sapling which somehow harbored a monstrous inverted ziggurat of a honeybee hive). At least the blankets hid her damning knee wounds from an unusually concerned Markus as he sat by her delirious side, recounting his daily conquests of things he jumped over and boys he punched out.

Back to the red rock. A little quizzically, Markus now looks at her crossed arms and mired feet. Odd. Other than foot races, he is hard pressed to think of a physical challenge which she does not readily accept. Perhaps this is a case where it is the mother duck who needs a little push from her duckling.

"How about this, Leona? If you want me to go back, come and get me!" She does not even have time to unfold her arms and shake more fists in protest before he vanishes with a boom and, before she knows it, he rests alight on top of a familiar butte. It is the not-even-a-challenge one which she originally asked him to jump onto, of course.

Her crossed arms and face are still as tight as the string of a cocked cross bow. "Forget it, Markus! I'm not playing this game with you!"

He stands on top of the broad rock line in a kingly manner, looking down at her from his pedestal with infuriating smugness. "What? Afraid to play a game you're gonna lose at?"

It is more his airs rather than his words. They are the straw that breaks Leona's back as she instantly swears to get up there someway somehow and wring the rabbit king's neck until his face is as purple as his knees. She does not say anything as she undoes her arms and begins to stretch out her legs, her reticent lips indicating just how freaking pissed she is. There is no need to look and see if he is grinning openly; his bared teeth are practically pressed against the small of her turned back. Her rising to his bait is victory enough for him.

Her legs are already limber from an hour spent avoiding rolled ankles, but she takes her time and covers all her bases because she _must_ complete this jump. Shoe laces and ponytail are retied. Her feet broom aside every last pebble from her launchpad. Her back cracks once to straighten any kinks. No particularly deep breaths in advance, for her oxygen intake is already optimal due to years of adhering to Rakkoran breathing practices. His distant heckling bounces off her with the impact of kamikaze junebugs.

With closed eyes, she turns to blindly face her greatest challenge yet, drawing strength from the warmth of the sun's papal smile. Empowering sunbeams and a whispering breeze invigorate her body and soul, well on their way to curing and buffing her skin to the stereotypical bronze imagined by outsiders. She has always been of the opinion that if one sets her mind to it, she can achieve anything. This opinion has suffered quite the beating as of late due to her inability to take foot races from Markus, but she will never believe otherwise since this mindset is engraved in her DNA by the powers that be. It is the mentality of the chosen ones.

Chakra surges forth now from her body of repose and Markus can feel its familiar color from where he squats. Her chakra bathes her in flowing plumage of pure white, white being the color found in those who value life above all else. It is an extremely rare color among warriors since conventional wisdom dictates that the most important aspect of a warrior's skillset is his ability to take lives, not value them. Like other chakra users, she cannot see/feel her own chakra's color, but Markus did tell her of the fronds of snow he saw/felt when her chakra initially came to fruition a couple years ago. She mused that perhaps she was a majestic eagle or an elegant whooping crane in a prior life. He mused that maybe she was once a chakra chicken of sorts. This led to her furiously chasing him round and round the village several times with the ferocious tenacity of a, well, an angry chicken.

While Markus likes to jest about her chakra color, the other Rakkoran view her whiteness with flat out concern; even though she excels in classes and training, they whisper amongst themselves nonetheless that she might never be as brutal and merciless on the battlefield as one needs to be. The whispers grow so loud, they actually prompt Markus to suggest that she eat more beets to see if they might stain her chakra to a more suitable red. When she realizes that he is not joking, she is more concerned than anything else that he might have cobwebs for brains. Either way, she doesn't like beets. His and everyone else's worries fall to the wayside as she does her own thing in typical Leona fashion.

She is no longer blind. Two thunder blue eyes flash open, the smoky blue of the cobalt thunder dust summoned by the galloping hooves of her ancestors' horses. The eyes glower at the butte before them as her chakra possibly spreads its majestic wings and possibly beats the air about her. She can't _possibly_ know for sure because she can't see her own chakra, yet she is sure. She is sure that, in a prior life, she was once a Rakkoran eagle, or maybe an Ionian whooping crane (_not_ a chicken). Her feet and body grow lighter. The butte grows smaller. Even the wind has picked up against her back, giving her its all in her most dire time of need, for the wind knows she needs to do this. She needs to jump onto this dumb rock, clobber Markus in the face, and drag him home by his red tunic's collar.

She steps forward to the edge to let out a beastly trill of a battle cry, warning everyone of her impending leap; maybe the heat waves play tricks with her blue eyes, but the butte seems to quake in fear on its single foot. Satisfied with the way her cry rebounds off the butte and its brothers, the brick colored tractor then backs up to the starting line and slowly morphs into a hot red ferrari. Her legs, arms, and trunk go low and sleek. Her hindquarters lift high into the air to form the rear spoiler. A crowd of two watches the amazing transformation with bated breath: Markus from above, and a dull-faced horned toad two boulders to her left. The race car crowd is golf crowd silent.

A faraway bird's cry does just as fine as the crack of a starter's pistol, and she is off, literally roaring to life as she sprints forward with legs too blurry for civilian eyes too follow, the world through her eyes jittering wildly as she hears her huffing breath in the back of her head. The ponytail streaks behind her straight as an arrow. Her shod feet churn against the rock with such violent scrapes that each huge step kicks out a crackling flurry of newly ground sand. She reaches the edge of her boulder launchpad in a blink. She sounds a whoop as her launch foot give one last push and she blasts off towards the cowering butte with the Olympian form of a long jumper: hands clawing the air as her legs cycle madly on an invisible bicycle. Her eyes widen as, for a moment, she is one with her fellow eagles. This jump is an amazing one and she can tell this is by far her best effort ever. Yes, yes, _yessss_. Surely this will be enough to take her to the top, where a foolish Markus thinks he rests in safety.

And then, sadly, reality sets in. Her whoop abruptly drops to a howl of dismay, as she realizes that she is already peaking (and dropping) at roughly a quarter of the butte's height. Even at this relatively lowly altitude, she finds it extremely difficult to control her body in mid-flight as she slowly spirals out of control. _By the gods, just how the hell does he maneuver himself to land with pinpoint accuracy on slivers of landing strips!_

That is all she can think as the butte rushes towards her bulging blue eyes. And then, splat! She pancakes spread eagled against the side of the red rock wall in a Wile E. Coyote-esque manner. Her flattened face utters a pitiable sound that can only be described as something in between a baby's burp and a puppy's bark. She hit the red rock with such violence she hangs there for more than a few moments, like a steaming wet noodle tossed against a wall. A grinning Markus cannot help but wince from high above.

Gravity then asserts itself and she peels off to tumble to the ground. Unlike Wile E. Coyote, she knows how to fall, twisting and turning to right herself into a suitable position to absorb the incoming impact. But the treacherous ground, which strove to injure her ankles earlier, finally draws blood as one of her extended hands slip awry on a loose stone, and her wrist screams as hand folds against forearm. Her teeth gnash sparks as she refuses to scream along with her wrist. Tears spring in her blue eyes, welling up due more to her failure than the pain.

A low voice close to her ear: "Hey, you all right?"

Under the cover of the butte's jeering windy whistle, the concerned bastard has dropped down behind her with the deadly silence of a swooping owl. Good. Now that he is here, she can bludgeon him at her leisure. Her swelling wrist and wounded pride, all his goddamn fault. Him and his stupid games, always turning everything into a competition (their childhood fights for food at the dinner table are the stuff of legend). He never does his required reading unless she practically binds him to a chair and reads it aloud for him. He never stops bullying his hapless peers. Always dozing off if she speaks more than ten words with a single breath. She brought the medical pack for him, yet she will be the one using it. All of this has come to a head, and all arrows indicate that the mature thing to do would be to knock his bobble head off and send it rolling with the tumbleweeds.

One small problem. Although he is the farthest thing from a doctor, he does have the veteran eye of one who has suffered countless bumps and bruises due to long-distance flight. Thus, he already has her by the wrists and he is hunched over them, comparing the intact flesh of the right with the discolored bulge of the left.

_He dares to check my injuries from a jump he made me do?!_

That he technically did not force her to jump? Matters not a single whit to her as her left arm rips free from him.

"Let _go_ of me!" Her warped mouth snarls with flying spittle as her truculent Rakkoran blood boils over and she blows her auburn lid off. With a single shove to his sternum, her open right hand sends the scowling Markus reeling back no less than a full dozen steps. Her savagely snarling lips pull back to reveal virtually all her teeth, two clenched rows of whitened squarish fury. Her fists ball by her sides, then go up and ready below her tucked chin, against the blasts of steam venting from her flared nostrils. The blue thunder eyes burn gaseous hot as she jealously notes how, even while he falls back from her mighty push, he easily backpedals on this terrain with his mountain goat feet. _He is not even looking down or behind him as he goes, for god's sake._

Meanwhile she stands here on plodding tractor feet, feet which feel so foreign and unwelcome on the shifting soil of her homeland. She is beyond angry, yet she is reluctant to take even a single step forward unless it is absolutely necessary. So she stays put where she is, feet spread shoulder-width apart with her strong handsome chin down and two balled hands up: the classic open-stance pose of one ready to throw down at a moment's notice. Still, he'll have to come to her if they are going to throw down because, quite frankly, she does not feel like stumbling all the way over to him and making herself look the fool in the process.

She's not done snarling at him. "You knew this was going to happen, you arse hole! You _knew_ it and you watched me go hurt myself anyway!"

He does not deny or apologize because that is not what Rakkorans do, and he shouts back from a dozen paces away: "Whatever, ya clumsy stubborn donkey! You didn't have to come along with me! You know perfectly well I'm fine out here by myself!"

"Fine?!" She points at his knees and screeches like a carrion bird who has caught whiff of his hardened blood. "You call this just fine?! You almost have no skin left down there! One more fall like that and everyone will be able to watch your tendons floss your kneecaps!"

His juvenile tongue reverberates. "Pbbbbt, my knees are fine! What the hell is the big deal about these little scrapes, they're just flesh wounds, nothing more! You've seen me suffer far worse over the years, what's changed between then and now, huh? Huh?!"

"What's changed?! I'll tell you what's changed! What's changed is - "

She blinks as her tongue stumbles and sprains itself. And just like that, so sure of her righteous fury and reasoning beforehand, the only things that make sense now are his words. Not hers.

She blinks again. He has a point. Just why _did_ the sight of his ghastly knees set her in all a tizzy last night? He has sported far deeper gashes and horribly broken fingers in the past; why, maybe half a year ago, he once came to dinner with his left pinky at right angle odds with his ring finger. He even brandished his precariously vestigial digit with pride that night, for apparently he had just vanquished a trio of his peers and left them comatose on the streets with six broken pinkies to his one. His glorious tale elicited a smile and nod from her as she splinted his gnarly finger. And then, after dinner, they played a game of blacksmith. It is a game they play fairly often, and it is a one-sided affair where she pounds with a hammer of broadsword flat and he wears a rounded anvil of helmet bronze.

However, those matters were clear-cut cases of meting out well-deserved punishment. This, on the other hand, as she finds herself again spinning out of control in the wind even though she is no longer in mid-flight...

She lets loose a snarl of finality which admits nothing, and she turns away from him to snatch up the fallen medical pack waiting for her on the ground. "What's changed is that you've gotten even dumber over the years."

Her accusations of subpar intelligence never have their intended effect because, when it comes to books, Markus prefers to think of himself as indifferent as opposed to incapable. Even then, her words sound extra lame as soon as they leave her tongue, and the flustered mother duck starts to aimlessly nose around in the pack...

After the few minutes of inevitable silence that follow one of their arguments, he is the one who approaches first. He is always the one, and he prefers to think this is because he has by far the shorter attention span.

"We can go home now if you want."

Leona does not turn back to him just yet as she holds up her freshly bandaged wrist to her eye, but her voice admits some wrongdoing. "We don't have to go right now. Go jump around like the rabbit you are, get it out of your system."

"Well, it's no fun jumping around alone if you're here with me."

"As if I could have jumped around with you in the first place."

"Your jump actually wasn't that bad. Better than most others. You made a funny sound too when you hit the wall." He sidesteps a small rock frisbee-whipped from where she sits.

Leona faces towards him now with innocent empty hands on her lap. "Well, sorry-eeeee for not being special like you are." (Oh, the irony.) "Perhaps if my head carried less weight between the ears, I could reach the heights you do." Not bad, she thinks to herself. That dig sounded a little less lame than the previous one.

He will always be impervious to these digs. "More like you burden yourself with the words of what you read! Who needs to open books when you can simply open wounds instead?"

She knows she is preaching to the choir now, but whatever. "Books open your mind to worlds and possibilities you could not even begin to dream of, Markus. Honestly, the number of paths your imagination can take, they multiply a hundredfold after a good book or two! You always talk to me about coming up with new battle strategies and what not? I am quite sure these revolutionary strategies you seek would come to you more easily if you would just pick up a tome once in a while."

"What are you talking about? I have already read all of our strategy books!"

"Pssht. You don't come up with new strategies by memorizing existing strategies!"

"Hmmm..." For a moment, she almost thinks she got through to him. And then: "Bah, whatever. I see things that no one else sees from atop these rocks and hills. That is inspiration enough."

"How can you be so sure if you don't read what everyone else reads?!"

"How can _you_ be so sure if you don't see what I see?!"

"You know I can't see what you see up there! What are you going to do, pick me up and carry me to the top like a bag of bread?!"

She immediately regrets her outlandish proposal. For now that she has shown Markus the light and a new feat to accomplish, two words are enough to describe the expression on his delighted face.

Challenge. Accepted.

He promptly turns away, thrusts his arse out, and hoops his arms for her to thread her legs through. The classic posture of a man expectantly waiting to give someone a piggyback ride. A _piggyback_ ride?! **_Piggyback?!_**

Leona promptly downgrades her evaluation of Markus's mental maturity from ten years to five.

The five-year-old man child waves impatiently. "Hop on. Let's go jump onto that rock over there."

She booms with the authority of a thousand forefathers: _**"NO."**_

"Why not?"

"I am _not_ riding piggyback on you. Just how old are we anyway?!"

He actually has to think for a moment to remember. "Fourteen." He pats his backside again. "Come on, what are you waiting for? Don't you wanna see what it's like up there?"

She does, but that's not the point. "Have you even jumped before while carrying someone?!"

"Nope."

"Then why the _hell_ would I let you carry me while you jump?! Are you _insane_?! We'll tumble out of control and plummet to the ground like bird droppings!"

"Don't worry, I'm a fast learner, you know that... I'll jump onto the shortest one, too. It'll be safe, I promise!"

"That shortest one?! It is a hundred yards high, for crying out loud!"

"I can jump four times that high. And it's not a hundred yards. It's eighty."

"_I don't care_ if it's eighty, one hundred, or fifty! And you promise it is safe?! How can you even _say_ that with a straight face when you have knees like those - "

"Holy ****, what the hell is _that_?!"

His eyes bulge in shock from within his helmet as he thrusts a finger to the skyline, and she is too caught up in her tirade to sniff out the oldest trick of the deception trade. So she turns her head and, before she knows it, the worst fibber in all of Rakkor has pulled a fast one on her as he pounces forward and sweeps her up in his arms.

For a moment, she has no idea what's going on, other than she feels comfortable in the hammock of his grip. Then she blows her lid again at this most patronizing and demeaning position she finds herself in, although she does not punch or shove him this time around (not yet, at least).

_"Markus. Put me down right now."_

"Don't worry, you're not that heavy. I got this."

She really hates it when he doesn't listen. _"MARKUS. PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW."_

Her mind explodes in amazement as he actually obeys and gently sets her back down on her feet. He then proves that miracles do come in pairs as he _takes off his helmet_, which pretty much _never_ happens while he is outdoors.

She is almost too stunned to talk. "What are you doing – " She squawks as Markus slaps his helmet onto her head now, the fit nice and snug. "Markus?! What the _hell_ – what are you doing?!"

The devil's grin. "Well, it just occurred to me that, if we do fall, you'll need the helmet more than I will."

And just like that, he sweeps her shocked self back up in his arms.

The brisk wind stills, the harsh sun softens, and a horned toad watches with keen interest from two boulders away. For a moment, and from inside his helmet, her blue thunder eyes are huge as they stare up at his storm cloud gray. Then a run-on string of protests pours forth from clumsy lips, because this is wrong, all wrong, no, no, no, why is he doing this, this feels so dangerous, but it is not just the jump she fears, for while her mouth is running, she cannot stop staring at his unencumbered face, it is such a rare and startlingly handsome sight

_was he always this handsome_

despite his dark matted crown of helmeted hair brown. Yes, he takes off his helmet when he eats dinner with the family (her house, her rules), but the sloppy and noisy manner with which he eats is _so_ unattractive, although at least now he uses a spoon to eat his soup, as opposed to just drinking it straight from the bowl

_he looks so much older without the goofy thing_

but of course he looks older, for he had already lost his parents before he was old enough to remember them. Lost to the first ever usage of biological weaponry by those cursed and cowardly Zaunites. At least the survivors were able to rescue his father's helmet, which is why he forever runs around as a bobblehead bully.

No, no, no, she tells him, you should wear the helmet, not me, I'll be fine, you know me, I'm Leona, I heal the fastest from sparring wounds, everyone knows that, besides, you can't afford to lose what little brains you have, no, we should not be doing this, at least let's go back to the village, we need two helmets, not one, also, what if you somehow lose grip in mid air and I fall -

His voice bothers to cut in through her confusion. "That will never happen."

Her babbling stops. "What?"

"Don't worry. You will not fall."

Like his face, his voice has become older. It is the voice of a man as opposed to a boy, and it is a voice that bears listening. It speaks of more than mere promises, for promises are a nebulous and unpredictable unknown, whether earnest or empty. What he speaks of is far more lasting than promises. It is eternal. It is undying. He speaks truth.

And the truth is that, so long as he has her in his arms, he will never let her fall. Never.

It is that moment he steals her breath and heart. Although, when she lies sleeplessly in bed later tonight after they return from the western outlier, she will realize that her heart already belonged to him long before. And then there are the other Rakkorans, who firmly believe these two were destined to be together from the very start. And perhaps this is true. For even when destiny smacks you repeatedly with a broadsword, sometimes it still takes a while for you to understand what's going on.

It will take a very long while for Pantheon Markus to consciously understand what's going on. Because, again, he is a single-minded man who doesn't consciously think about much other than fighting. He barely even knew what he was saying when he told her she would not fall. At the time, he just wanted her to stay still and shut up, and he hadn't expected anything else beyond that. But he meant his words, nonetheless, every last one of them. He would never let her fall. Never.

She regains her breath and manages a nervous smile that he does not notice because he is a single-minded and oblivious idiot. "Fine, then. Go ahead and jump, you big-eared rabbit."

"Hey!" The voice of the boy is back. "My ears aren't _that_ big."

"Whatever you say. Rabbit."

He shifts to get a better grip on her and, since her tunic's bottom now dangles at mid thigh, she shivers as his left arm slides against the crook of her naked knees. "Hold on tight," he tells her. "The air gets a little bumpy the higher you go."

She nods, but she does not quite do what he asks. For when she reaches up with her arms, she aims to hold him close, not tight. And she does hold him close. Very close.

_You will not fall._

These two have no idea how prophetic his words will be seven years from now.

**END OF CHAPTER**

Well, since a few reviewers wondered when Leona would be showing up again... and I was already planning on doing one more flashback about Leona's and Pantheon's younger days... therefore, a Leona chapter!

I put this chapter here right after the first couple Fiora chapters to better illustrate the stark contrast in how Pantheon interacts with the two women. This chapter was actually pretty draining for me, especially the latter part. It was a lot easier to write the flirty stuff with Fiora than to write the romantic mushy stuff with Leona. Good thing I had a four day weekend due to the holiday, it would have taken a lot longer to write otherwise.

I've made a more concerted effort in recent chapters to describe the appearances of the environment and the characters, although I still find myself glossing over certain details (e.g. I don't think I've described a single shoe yet; in my defense, I almost never look at people's shoes IRL). I noticed in my early chapters that I focused a little too much on actions and thoughts while neglecting the appearance aspect. Back then, I just sorta assumed that the reader could see the characters that I saw in my mind, and all I had to do was tell them what the characters were doing... and you know what they say about assuming.

I just totally made up the part about the Rakkor's ancestry of nomadic horsemen and the hidden valleys stuff and all that. I dunno exactly what Rakkor's origins are, I don't recall seeing anything about it in canon lore.

**Responses to Chapter 7 Reviews:**

Regarding Fiora and if she's manipulating Pantheon: The mutual attraction between Fiora and Pantheon is real, that much is obvious. But is she manipulating him? To an extent, certainly. But how far? We'll have to find out, hue hue hue. As for Fiora's father and the poison stuff. I thought he poisoned their drinks, not his blade? Will she find out about this poison during this story? Well, I already have this story planned out in my head and in various rough outlines, and although there will be a mention of her father and poison in the future, I do not plan on exploring it extensively. It's funny, I literally already know how everything in this story will go. It's all planned out. There are nine chapters left.

Regarding Shyvanna x Jarvan: Of course I haven't forgotten about those two! One should have noticed, however, that I currently have Jarvan off on his dragon hunting trip... which means... at this point in time, he hasn't yet brought Shyvana back to Demacia... I'm sure his mother will be thrilled if he hooks up with someone who isn't even fully human, let alone a noblewoman, kekekeke...

Regarding Leona's "manipulation": I wouldn't call it manipulation, per se, but Leona definitely wants to change certain things about Pantheon. The most obvious thing to come to mind? His habit of beating up other people which he severely outclasses. Remember who is using the word "maipulation" here, though, for it is Fiora. And Fiora would use the word "manipulation" because it has underhanded implications, and it would cast a less favorable light on her unknown competition (we the readers know who Leona is, Fiora does not).


	9. Hiatus

Hi all, and thanks for enjoying my story as it is so far. Unfortunately, I want to announce that this story is going on hiatus for now. I've gotten to the point where I want to try writing fiction, not fan fiction, and I really don't have the time to do both (I work full time at a job that, while offering decent pay and flexible hours, is not conducive to writing). I've heard the average novel is 65,000 words in length and this story, maybe 60% done so far, is already 47,000 words long! If or when finished, this story will definitely be comparable to a typical novel in terms of length.

However, the thing I've realized recently is this: if I am going to spend the time to write something as long as a novel, why not just try to write an actual novel? I really enjoy writing fan fiction for myself and the LoL fans, I enjoy the game so much, and I've fallen in love with playing the role of story teller. But ultimately, I feel like me spending six more months on this story gets me nowhere in the game of life. I will certainly improve as a writer during those six months (practice makes perfect), but that is about the only tangible benefit I can think of and that's not enough. I want more. At the very least, I would like to have something I can call my own.

Nothing is set in stone yet. Compared to people who actually majored in liberal arts and fields involving writing composition, I am relatively new at this writing thing and I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do. Maybe I will change my mind and come back to finish this. I will definitely still write fan fiction here and there just because it is fun to explore possibilities in someone else's universe; but as of now, any future fan fic endeavors will be much shorter and less ambitious than this story. It really is funny that I originally planned for this story to be a dinky three-chapter thing. But then I kept saying to myself, what if I went here or went there, etc etc. And it just exploded on me and took on its own life.

So basically, to make a long story short, I am an indecisive writer who doesn't yet exactly know what he wants. Either way, I'd like to thank anyone who has read this because stories are literally nothing if there is no one around to listen to them.


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